Unicorns Land On Pots Of Gold. Poem by Michael Gale

Among the guardian ghouls...
As they sit on stools.

Awaiting the serpents sway...
On the river slay.

Beyond all wandering spray...
Always at ease as they play.

Amongst the faltering towers...
Without, any of their original powers.

Weakened were they beyond all days...
Ancient and older than all the elder grays.

Stumbling farther down the road...
Had, they since, shrunken, insteadda grown?

In the dream of weakest wrong...
In the skies of wonderous song.

The Dragons strayed upon that earth...
Since the time of their accidental birth.

Strained through clouds of white...
Upon all shoulders be they, right.

Awaiting the trumpet of twisted blessed...
Pygmies stressed, and failed their tests.

Below the rainbowed colored pallette...
Live the wicked wretched, challette.

Shall it be so home bound stained? ...
Lastly captured among the remained.

Ping pong balls bounce like pennies from Heaven...
Once they've hit, all are deaden.

Mullberrey bushes grow onto a pot of gold...
Since the day of new or old.

Kick the can as best ye can...
Be the woman and sickly man.

In the end...
One does send.