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.
