One round about a sound. Bound all around even in the grain of the ground. Its echos dont drown after the ships gone down. It rings and screams and sings from everything - what it brings on wings in dreams, the theme of the screams, words out of reams that burst at the seams. A whistle of steam; then cream. Upstream, a thistle with bristle. A harp played by a pistil. A pistol that sound, the one bound, a shot in the dark on the mark. Of a lark, and of falling – stark. In wood and water, in a daughter, in whats fought for. The sound is in more I implore. It tore at the chore. Everything out the door it adores. In fable and lore, in folly times four. In silence it shouts, in time it counts. Listen to the sell of a man who fell, a man with an oceans swell, chased by hell but lives to tell – A tale to pin on his lapel – about the sound of the souls bell. A yell, Hear me now, hear me well. Blatantly not bashfully. Joyfully, defiantly, it will yell. But mutely, mindfully whispers at me. Memorably, mockingly laughs at me. Painfully, perfectly pulls at me. Piteously, piously comforts me. This sound, even after the ships gone down. Alone with the tone of the swell, from heaven or hell. Wholly, willfully I fell free on thee. youtu.be/OVob8CVv3J0
Posted on: Sat, 18 Oct 2014 05:53:34 +0000
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