to a wild rabbit
words are mine
no words take from his eyes
the breeze blown beauty of the woodlands
nor the silver scented sight of evening glories
manhood mine
a prince of the fields is he
even in the terror of flight
a strange high ecstasy
spirits to delight
age is mine
he will not grow old
nor fear the passing of his world
the lure of yellow gold
the bitterness of friends becoming foes
no words take from his eyes
the breeze blown beauty of the woodlands
nor the silver scented sight of evening glories
manhood mine
a prince of the fields is he
even in the terror of flight
a strange high ecstasy
spirits to delight
age is mine
he will not grow old
nor fear the passing of his world
the lure of yellow gold
the bitterness of friends becoming foes
posted by heelers | 2:09 AM
1 Comments:
True poet, J.! Love your writing. Too bad you can't read mine, or can you?
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