Truth can sometimes be seen only by a child’s eye.
Bitter bite of winter night
finally claws at the wolf in the
Heart of man believes the tale,
mocking him in whispered tones
known only by the wise –
kings and soldiers die alike.
It is here where the wanderer and narrow path meet,
seeking, fearing, craving
A sick-minded slashing
churning and fueling your venom of hate –
And I have bled for your deceit.
You are the enemy loathing your fate –
The pierced Hand has crushed you.
Light-headed head of ale
tipping as the tankard leers
over the edge of the table-top.
Satisfaction never followed
after a hammered utopia.
Eyes in the shadow of a lantern
follow after golden-gleamed twilight.
archer in waiting for the hilltop
grass to rustle ‘neath the out-tricked hart
Where are your people, your title, your throne?
Your home evades you like the breath of dawn.
Yet which is the land that must finally loosen the castaway’s grasp?
Cast among the smoke, yet you wonder who is master –
A king who merely rules the earth must always serve another.
Every hour spent
trying to flee from the storm
keeps my heart from
seeing the prism through