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Tho’ Withered, I Bear The Sword

06 Dec

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This illustrious version of youth,
the stealth of habitual reverence
to my premier and defined age,
when I have not roses to display,
yet I brandish fire for my cause,
whether mountainous, quiet valor,
or skipping stones ‘cross an ocean,
that I yet bear the youthful vigor
for which my actions then eschew;
and I, tho’ not of youth in form,
am but staid well with my past,
and relate all manner of clamor,
so my cause be fully understood;
I shout to the moon my destiny,
‘ere youth has no strength of reach,
and in this call, unveiling my stand,
bear sight of youthful premise too;
in the end, my last cry echoes away,
leaving faint ripples in the ocean,
and I’ve made my peace with earth,
I am at one now with my purpose,
and tho’ disdained of youthful form,
I’ve yet to suffer diminished faculties,
my strength still clings to my words,
and my sword has yet to unsheath.

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Posted by on December 6, 2015 in My Poetry

 

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