Though I'm growing weary And roads grow longer still And time, it mars my body And sorrow wounds my will I stand on solid mountains Though winds howl against their faces And bitterness becomes the sun In light of ancient graces. Why do I lament bitterly As though
The bards of English verse have taught my pen Much more of life and love than I'd admit. They reach from centuries to speak again And I admire wordsmiths I've not met. They speak plain truth and life in simple words And touch on human nature
I once took refuge in the tainted past Clung to fairy tales and happy ends. The foolishness of youth to think 'twould last; I am--I was--as carefree as the winds. But taint or not, their power over me Was no less in their words than in spells cast And
Had I wings as he Perhaps I would have chosen Rather to die well Flying, foolish, and sun-warmed Than die hopeless, in the dark. postscript For day 25. Tanka, based on this week's prompt.
She takes the wind in hand And scatters rain Leaving footsteps on mountain faces. She speaks life and storms And whispers gently. Reckon not with her Nor call her lovely But see beyond her eyes Into her mind. She knows the wildest fury Of the city Lit at night with