Dearest Of All Your Dear's Poem by James McLain

It is across the many never shallow pits,
are they deeply felt or ever barren fields of leaves.
My dearest of all your Dearest, love of fears,
it is but to many to but never take to task.
Just frost of, off the highest cloud none will speak.
The mountains where I stood were naught but hills.
And rapid streams that quenched the heat at your front door.
Quiet passes by and each quite whisper does and,
the quietness of the toes, stitched button holes.
One copper coin is hidden covered open, padded eye.
The deceased by chains are hanging from the wall.
Where each rubber lip I see between the teeth one falls.
Moister from the walls I tread the land each hole it does.
But like the destiny the moon it once a distant memory.