arbo

Atop a mountain throne

It is whispered there exists

A sword in mountain's stone

We wander dimming myths

Not knowing where we go

Broken into bits

Beneath the sworded stone

Alas, he who takes the risk

Is cast out far below

For we all hate his glint

And how desperately he pulls

But hatred's mostly this:

The sword's still stuck in stone

Despite giving all to give

But having been one who knows ya, I don't trust your looks to tell

Low cunning in your composure, a pretty face; a violent hell

In the wake of your exposure: a trail of tears and men who fell.

I must admit a grave disclosure: I'm among them fallen down.

And though its pits and pains to know ya, I really hope you're doing well

I can't recall a moment sober, the world for two with you around.

And though the lawyer cost a fortune, I paid my debt n walk the town

And you never looked so gorgeous, as when your lies there slithered down

To avert you from my vision; the greatest crime of pride abounds

Surely as that something missing, the finest point there etching spells

Surely as your eyes were dimming, as you stitched that night to hell

Missing calls then mine for prison, but I'd prefer that lonely cell

Did you note my opposition? Some poor fool more clown than crown

He flailed and stomped at sane decision, stupid stuff to make you proud

And I for one don't blame him, I only pray you're doing well

There in roaring ruin;

Roaring ruin of the sea

Rests a man made tower

Above the restless sea

On the tower stands a man

A little man named he

He's pulling ancient dragons

To keep them from the slanted words

Writers, journalists, and the learned

Snakes of such make and plenty

Thinking is quite stupid, when you really give it thought

Once a things been stolen, thoughts won't recover loss

Surely time's the bandage; a balm for burning wounds

Thinking's reaping troubles, while the reaper's shadow looms

A confounding scale of problem, for simple folk as us

Better yet to smooth the brain before we turn to dust.

For thinking is resentment; a mountain of hours killed

And despite all of my best attempts I've barely scratched a hill—

the death of any minute: the rise of gloomy thought

The living in distractions, and flight from ticking clocks

If given just a minute, I'd rather see it dance

It isn't in my pocket

And isn't over there

I'd remember if I dropped it

I had it before coming down the stairs

Surely I can't have lost it

Hush to hear its groans

The groans are coming from my stomach

Sagging crosses, long dethroned

Some foreign world; so soon to die

The dead, ever restless, march on by

Unseen along the Roman road.

Ours is the life. Tomorrow

We pass to cruel gloom, bitter cold

With spite and fear, unwillingly

Far from violent fields.

We are as an archer with his bow

And quiver empty, taut and pulled

Will an arrow; piercing shrill our cry

And let loose nothing o'er earth to fly