TheseFrailHands

White broken wings, and a bleeding heart Beating in vain against an iron prison, A cold and hungry cage of time That sentences him to a shattered dream, Under the angry, burning sun. Fallen, the once noble dancer surveys His lost and high domain, the gilded skies That mock and scorn him as he weeps, And mourns the illusion. Cast out from the azure heavens, Where once he sailed so surely, and fairly Upon the gently beckoning winds, And ruined, forsaken by his freedom – Apparent birthright - here he lies Lingering for these short, wretched hours Adrift upon a cold sea of stone, His dark eyes, blinded by the fall Wat

"Setting Sail At Evening" The pale lights are burning low, clear and bright upon the far and distant veiled shore, and my heart yearns for home and hearth and song in this bright hour of golden twilight, where sky and water meet in soft, lavender embrace, casting all the sea into fiery, brilliant glass. For now our fine white sails are set, loosed and full, singing fairly in the gentle evening breeze that dances upon the burnished waves, whispering a lowly melody, full of promise and of hope; And too, our strong and mighty prow, rounded in it's power, cutting some new path boldly and bravely through the rolling, infernal dee

"On The Eve of Battle" My old life seems so distant, long forgotten like the dream that fades into the twilight of a gray morning, eluding frail my grasp, and home is only a soft, sweet memory, a faded portrait in my hand, cracked and worn. The faint, black and silver lines are mingled with the falling of tears from a salt-worn eye in bitter watches of the night, when all seems lost, and the inevitable stain of time. All the rounded miles I have trod, weak with pain and the quiet, crippling weight of a breaking heart, in light of fiery dawn, and cold star-crowned sky, when the chill, sharp sting of winter's white breath stirs

Laughter I dance the skies on silvered wings in unseen heights of joy, bright with golden mirth, a thousand shining colors reflected in the eye. There is no lighter thing, this place where dreams take hold, and the stars' crystal rain falls gently from a canopy of blue, as deep as time itself; to soar above this fettered world of broken care - dark, and heavy as a mist - and instead to seek the secret place where sunlight reigns brightly, and forever upon the soft fields of amethyst, makes glad my heart, as some new song; for together you and I, leaping and rejoicing in our laughter, may discover some new and curious thing

"A Hymn for the Fallen" When the field of battle lies silent, and cold In the gray of the twilight and mist, The last notes of the trumpet have faded away, let us then raise a Hymn for the fallen. A song for the sons that will come nevermore and look down on their homes by the sea. For the price paid in blood is remembered with tears, Come, raise a Hymn for the fallen. When the cannons are silent, out up on the hill, and the men laid to rest on the green, When the flag flies in triumph, and arms are laid down let us then raise a Hymn for the fallen. A song for the sons that will come not again, never walk 'neath the trees that

'Autumn Rain' Cold tears fall from a broken sky and sadly linger, with a kiss to heal the scars, and ease the pain of fading memory upon the world. Tears, that in this last embrace, recall the fair and golden light of summer's gentle touch,   and play their soft and sweet lament upon the silent, wintry graves, and sing, and mourn in hushed array for  the ones that cannot hear their songs;