For he whose name was writ in water

" A quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, but the energies displayed in it are fine"
-John Keats

Alas, Grecian urns are forever more cursed
to be fated with the same avaricious consumption
as the Potter himself.
How fickle is man to boast his origins of clay.
And still how radiant that earthen odor is to he who knows
not yet his beast is broken.

Alas, the astral titans grow weary in their chambers
Begging for a banquet of sound to satiate their solar tongues.
The stardust of their gardens blinked their way
and the silence screamed in violent contortions
the void shrieked (with heart of harpy and health of dove)
Through stalwert and stoic labor pains


Maverick
07:12 PM