Daegal (16.03.89 / Doncaster, England)

A ghost upon a moor’s dark banks.
What was it’s grand story?
Did it dream or riches deep,
Or a war time hero’s glory?

Would a crown sit upon its head,
In a fashion quite amusing?
Or would it crumble, break and fall,
Upon a ground confusing?

Had it worked its hands awry,
To live to see the morn’?
Or did it die because of this,
In hope to be reborn?

From where I sit I see it clear,
It wanders, head hung low,
Searching for an aimless thing,
As if it might lie below.

When breezes shift its nomadic form,
And scatter it about,
I frown indeed, just for my ghoul,
‘Til again I see it sprout.

With moistened steps upon the heath,
It dances ‘round and ‘round,
With effortless and nimble strides,
It cavorts without a sound.

Marrying the stars each time
The light becomes too dim,
It fades and pines for something lost,
Invisible and slim.

Until the morning comes again,
Magnificent and proud,
And too, it wakes and looks once more,
And so, I watch my cloud.

I see it close, an age on end,
And wonder at its grace,
And languish as a follied dupe,
In an agonized embrace.

True to say that envy burned,
I yearned its simple death,
Though complicated, this life be,
I want not to draw that breath.

Its dewy kiss upon the sky,
An epic, structured rhyme,
It’s mourning eyes still singing sad,
In its own world, sublime.

I think it now a king indeed,
No merchant, thief or vagrant,
Its kingdom bold would surely stand
In a place smelled sweet and fragrant.

I would not doubt to haunt this place,
And gaze upon its walls,
If they were those which we perceive
In our mind’s absent halls.

But dreams will last and I must go,
Now written, done and made,
To the image which my wits create,
A homage to my aide!

End.