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When first he ventures to betroth, and bind to him for all his days;
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There was a time, another age,
if we turn back that dog eared page;
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Oh, Albion! Proud Albion,
how is Britannia fell;
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Oh faithless cur! Black curse’d hound,
that soundless in my shadow walks;
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Where are they now?
Those men;
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I knew him then; and he knew me,
though not a word he spoke;
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Did Britons legion spend their lives,
upon those foreign soils;
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Seek not to charge with whom they lie,
or bond perversion to their name;
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Comes shrill the sound, the siren’s call,
and bright the flare against the squall;
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Grey granite priests; Megaliths born of time,
cold shoulders massive, stern and resolute;
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I lit a single flame to guide them in the blackness, and stood open my doors,
crying out into the night… “Bring me your tired…
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by sullivanthepoet
7 lines, 2 comments,
on Mar 21 6:00 AM. In Abuse, Adult, Contemporary, Life, Pain, Personal, Sad, Society, Thoughts
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Invisible Lives...
Old women; shuffling and tapping, hunched and weary, heads down,
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Where rests your armour - knight of the old ways;
And what fearful serpents seek you in these wretched alleys?
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In twilight vapours the municipal colossus lays breathing,
its concrete and wood and steel and glass body sprawled,
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Dark sentinel in living rock, aguard her brine cut bay,
abreast the Plym, in verdant cape, does Plymouth’s foreshore lay,
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They brought them home…
They left them there...
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The magistrate sent Rowland back, he let him off ...for dealing crack!
‘Twas less than half a key he said, and sentenced ‘e be tagged - i
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What frail excuse may mentors cite, when precious youth scant reads nor write,
though squandered years count half a score, beware our impo
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That parasite you surely be, consuming, with impunity,
a host that scarcely knows your suit while slowly, slyly, you pollute;
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I see my presence bothers you!
Your pious words sculpt no disguise,
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What hand might mould such paradox; this vision held to torture man,
form silken tress and azure gaze to shame ripe wheat and summer skies
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Call vilest worm that creature he,
who by his words proves bigot be,
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When bloodied conquest lusts for name,
if truly title it require,
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Within their wild cacophony,
each nameless drone amongst the throng;
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As travellers they fell by chance,
upon this fertile turquoised sphere,
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Young fruit, half ripe, as yet unpicked, hangs turgid on the vine,
else fully grown in form, in flesh, it begs the eye to dine.
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Bubbling, taunting, time's dark tide,
each eddy swirled,
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From flesh and bone my mirror framed,
reflects a face gone by,
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What gross deceit to dream life's well should favour but one cup,
or 'magine for a heart beat's width thence only man might sup!
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I... that pale illusion; that waking, futile dream which too long
served as my existence is now so easily forgot,
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@Fore length'ning shadows' martial march,
as though there tolled a silent bell,
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"O gentle place; too sweet the breeze,
That languid sings and stirs each branch'ed aisle,
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I watch,
the nicotine stained organza of evening as it casts its wreaths on the body of the dying light,
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