Member-only story
poem
Upon sacred fields they yield incantations of glory
Zeal burns bright — the zest of vexed stories
Parchment, dappled moonlight, candle, quill at hand
Elegantly waste the poets, immortal in holy lands
Ink sodden, solemn, lest be forgotten
Begotten in zealotry
A thousand simmering objects beaten into poetry
Cast from the poor, courted in their times
Legend of the morrow, cometh lunchtime
In dewy marsh, a frothy shore, or on cruelest seas
Mealy mouthed the brave tales vainly traipsed
To listen is to forgive, to believe an idle chore
Sink or swim the object, to prosper not implored
Thy shall not, thou shouldst, questions dare posed
Answered quite freely, rarely supposed
The world’s greatest secrets, whom the divine chose
Who cheats the hangman, ‘n what color if a rose
In their words bathe the folklore, in awe lay their sway
Embraced by the masters, exhumed by the saints
Sought for their meaning, searched for their soul
Or a future foretold
— so say the prophets,
of the poets of old
