Connor Anderson Poems

From his childhood hour Agrippa betook to lean
On the pallid statue to dream
About a delicate little flower
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Cold, yielding, yet wishes to be undaunted, from the sorrow laden
that he forfeits. Ruthlessly he cries, flightless
he tries, but still is sitting, never flitting.
From that hunched shadow with the thousand yard stare that lies before him. No word spoken here, and not a single token from the moon are bequeathed to the owl.
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The enigma which binds me still;
An ostentatious knight who would journey to kill.
Lay ill the demise of Earth’s precious gems,
A catalyst for the dragons undaunted stem.
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