I've been fiddling with this particular bit of verse for some time. So if you, the gentle reader, could a: provide a critique and b: supply a name, I will be verily happy. Enjoy.
Sun-dappled dreams of roses and wine,
Mar an evening of dreadâ€™s dire design.
In the tertiary tide of the eleventh knell,
The old clock chimes his bric-a-brac bell,
Each calculus tick an unbearable beat,
Like the treading of feet on a star-soiled street.
Windows yawn as the sleep-addled dawn,
Emerges like a wily, gun-tempered faun,
Spilling light into streets as cold and as dead,
As medusaâ€™s bloody horror-hewn head.
Yet we fail to feel the requisite fear,
And ears, though attuned, cannot straining hear,
The paddle in the boatmanâ€™s sore-covered hand,
As he guides his skiff to rock-steady land.
The wine is fresh, and the daisies in bloom,
And butterflies fill the forested gloom,
Flitting like mailmen from scent-saddled homes,
Flowers old and contorted like bell-tower bones.
Surly oncoming evening will herald no dread,
As the moon supplies his virus-quick head,
Presiding over the quailâ€™s loquacious calls,
And the gentle patter of fen crested falls.
Chattering like chimes of May-merry glass,
We spread our wet blanket on dew-tempted grass,
Dispensing a legion of Arabesque spices,
To daunt the chill of duskâ€™s creeping devices.
Who sired the stars, what seed birthed the moon?
What faerie commands the perilous dune,
Or the seas, shiftless and black with old wrath,
Offended at serving many a mortal-drawn bath?
How old are the trees, and how wise their boles,
Leaves hissing like water spilt on spent coals;
How marvelous the mountain, stoic and cold,
Fettered with pines as bread with brown mold.
And above it all the specter of fear,
Looms like a looking glass polished and clear,
Showing the horror of age and spent dreams,
Stuffing shed from Fateâ€™s fastidious seams.
So hoist the tankard, and drain it with joy,
As pin wheeling heaven hatches her ploy.
And say as you glare at the obstreperous sky,
â€˜Eat Drink and be Merry, for Tomorrow We Die.â€™
Conservatives on the Arts: the arts are for gays destroy museums and put up those wild jungle housing projects
What is the porpoise of existence?