This world is but a winery,
Its host and master Father Time
Who caters only to those seeped
in dreams discordant, without rhyme
For People drink and race as thought
They were the steads of mad desire,
Thus some are blatant when they pray
and others frenzied to acquire.
Few on this Earth who Savor Life
And are not bored by its free gifts,
Or divert not its streams to cups,
In which their fancy floats and drifts.
Should you then find a sober soul,
amid this state of revelry
Marvel how a moon did find,
in this rain cloud, a canopy
Saturday, February 9, 2008
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3 comments:
I thought I had left a comment on here earlier but I guess I never submitted it. I'm glad I inspired you and look forward to reading your work. Now I'm inspired to post more on a mentis ad scriptum. By the way, I liked your poem. Look forward to more!
P~
To paraphrase Les Claypool, if I find that soul and he's got a match...well, he's got a friend.
:)
And nice though/construct...I was in the age of metre and rhyme at that time of life too. Structure can present quite the challenge for one to master. Like learning any variation of an instrument...it's all good training.
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