A call from on high sent swift and clear
To perfect man with willing ear.
And thus, a breath of tiring chills
Had drug a fluttering eyelid’s fill
Of sleep, a snooze atop the grass
Where moon and time can quietly pass.
Whistling breeze, oh slobbering sloth,
What pounds upon the still night doth
Break cold clouds the same His bolt
Should shake sea tides to toss and jolt?
What, thunderous snores like stone?
Man’s cage of bone left unsewn;
A plant firmly rooted, white petal, He muted…
Her seed and a bloom proudly suited!

A perfect example of a finished piece that I as the creator, hate.
Perhaps I’ll rewrite this someday…


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