i

Enthroned she is
Upon her seat of tear's;
Aloft so high
Her feather's flyeth
I shalt unfluster
All her fear's.

ii

We shant get old
Ourn young fashioned soul's;
To pirouette ourn secluded abode
And in this land of gold
Ourn solid mold
To fit into amour' letter's.

iii

Nevi'im of the time's
Prescient of mind's;
Mine arm's shalt wrappeth thee
On plain's arrived
And when thou cryeth
I'll remindeth thee, thou art mine.

iv

Stroketh mine hair
I'll pulleth thine own slowly;
Thou feeleth alone
Though with me and God, thou art not lonely.
We'll March, and be showy, showing all of us
We'll be the dream, other's seeketh, though canst not find....


©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©あある じぇえん