At night in bed, my teardrops drying Trying hard to hear that sound Sound of moving mountain thunder Underneath my quilted down
Comfort me oh Great Mechanic Panic has me faint and sick Quicken now a firm believing Grieving, my heart feels the *****
Far away my sister’s praying Saying prayers to help my doubt Shouting at beguiling spirits Here, it’s lost...but I say shout!
Though we may not know it’s method Death’d be the surest in Sin's beautiful smothered in grace Tracing your path...further up and in
Win the race thou good and faithful, Bullish though you were at times. Times, just being what these times are, Far away we pray with rhymes
This was my second stab at writing a Conachlon. Thought I'd repost it as it didn't get many reads the first time around. Conachlon is an old Gaelic form where last syllable of a previous line rhymes with first syllable of next. Any other rhymes (like couplets, for instance) are sometimes used, but not necessary.