His armour has no chink
Light peers in through his window
Yet he does not stir
Upon his chest rests a bouquet
Much like the kind he brings
To his lady of fair
~
His pure white stallion
Impatiently awaiting
Yet his bridle is not upon him
As the sun breaches the sky
I wonder why he does not rise
Even the mice are not lurking
I have this feeling like when it rains
Of eternal loss in thunder's pains
~Moses~
© 2007 Moses Lestz - All Rights Reserved
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