Poezja

Never spoken, gentle such
Hope divine for want of too much
Still heart, bled dry, stories told
Cold eyes, stare dead, weary, old


Meek of soul, spine is bent
A lifetime of suffering.
His will is spent.
His head is light,
The sun is in his eyes.
His soul still bright
Soaring above it flies.


Tired sunsent, crawls to victory
And the last refuge
calls with all it's mystery
Sleep at last takes over his mind
And spreads a blanket.
Deep and in rhyme.


In dreams, he still swims
in oceans of time
And currents of whims.
Castles are the clouds,
The stars but jems,
Held, spoken, touched and broken


The gods he sees
Often hiding,
Behind the whisper of a dream
Or nightmare biding.
True dreams he dreams,
Of splendor ancient, and beauty such.
Few are born, still few chosen,
Blessed to be, Hypnos touched.


Never spoken, gentle such
Hope divine for want of too much
Still heart, bled dry, stories told

Cold eyes, stare dead, weary, old


Blessed of Dream, Dreamer bold
A king in his realm, even a God may grow old.