from the misty moors he climbs
out over the rocks,
a celtic king with the rings of the moon
above his head,
the splendor of stars
at his feet,
every footstep taken an imprint of
thousands who've gone before -
their spirits living in the veins
that make their way over his majesty,
sculpted from the hands of thor,
hammered tones of bronze,
hard flesh covered in tribal clothes,
colors to show the clan's fire
as he travels down the road
wielding steel in the might of his hands -
hands that in battle rip the enemy in two,
and in love mold his lover
with the strongest caress,
sending waves of urgency
that push the castle doors open to
the celtic king and his majesty,
turning over the throne and
surrendering the crown,
laying down arms,
making alliances that only in dreams
can ever come true .
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This poem is so supurbe in all the essence of your pen
Very Captivating!
the mist hovers over the peaty soil
covered with heather and bracken and moss ...
It's where the King dreams the dreams and cries,
(don't tell the others mind ye)
cuz the storms do come ... aye ... they come
and try to ruin the dreams
And it came in of a sudden,
This bitter blustering thing,
Rumblin low and a-moanin -
As a fair bonnie woman in moil -
Stroking all the senses daft, this
Portend black of billowing clouds,
Bearing down on the heather bitter
With a sharp-set iciness that bit
Fiercely at the skin like the
Teeth of Serpents
But we prevail at all costs,
cause there's no other choice ya know.
Standin strong against the storms
And all the bloody naysayers
And all the sour pickles
you rock sis