L (11-03-1977 / )


Breaketh ye the idle mind
That runs with blackened vengeance,
Like the warhorse
Through the village of the past,

Whose wicked
Neigh and snort,
Doth strike the fragile heart
And drive all love away

With hooves of iron to trample
The memory of kindness
‘Till there is none left
To feel or say.


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