The lines that rang are lying dead - what might have
been has shed its wings, but soars no more - we’re
scriving where you best forget there was no Law for
writing Poetry; and yet, somehow - a sense of purity
evades those blasé bleats of herded sheep - we are
imbued by feelings freed mortality for here and now,
th' lion's roar regrets a call for commonality it meant
for whetting words transcending into time and place
Yet here the space is limitless; we’re on a plane with
vast and verdant vestiges recalled from yesteryear -
we hear its echoes reminiscing in exchanges where
all voices ring, & in it’s tumult cues of dying lines as
such impugned by rhythmic heresy; we distance all
that fuss again to lie at rest, & let the peace remain
© 27 July 2018, I. D. Carswell
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