TS (03/24/1978 / Mass)


There is a slight,
a hand of might,
that comes at night
to dwell...
Among the minds,
between the lines,
of all the kinds
there felt...
Of mice and men,
in numbers ten,
for nought or when,
it's held...
I've seen heroes there,
of a godlike air,
without a care
they've knelt...
But now the time,
without reason or rhyme,
has entertwined
with hell...
to shadow the side,
where heroes may hide,
and most have died
or fell...
that nothing remains,
between the strains,
to hide the pains
they're delt...
but the glory is,
we all want this,
it's what we miss
too well...

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Comments (1)

Interesting. Hugs Jan