twas oft the way in days of old,
when knight would battle brave and bold,
the damsels hand in hopes to hold,
worth more then polished stone, or gold
for this is what a boy is told
when day is done and night is cold…

when poor knights cry

crystal eyes
fall for them
over
and over
drown in oceans stormy grey
lost in forests emerald green
to get drunk inside and snap away to sober

you've lost that little feeling in scotland

it rains in the gray-light evening
over mirror-wet streets
over the bay and the dim river
quietly the grass trembles on the graves of the dead
under the steady rain

zamilafka