'A Gra' Reformata' (A Form Which I Created) Poem by Michael King

The bogs of Hell are harshly flowing by;
Small silver spoons are forceful, burned by men,
so fight on through. Your passion's come to die

Though pious are the lepers of the deep.
still shallow all our sisters, made to weep.

So go on home, pretending not to cry
and count the rocks, the sandstone, reef and fen;
The bogs of Hell are harshly flowing by.

So ask the fools how low they choose to rise
for greed remains in envy round the eyes.

The sterile wastes inhale a solemn sigh,
while merchant trains, and donkeys fail to ken.
So fight on through. Your passion's come to die

The corn blows out the midnight, straw flung creep,
as crows regale in wind-chimes, what they reap.

Give a strong shake, the breeze calls in reply,
a solitary, single treeless glen;
the bogs of Hell are harshly flowing by.

Don't fail to ruminate in molten charm,
the truth relies on mutilated harm.

Stained cold remorse stands sullen here, whereby
there sings right there a baleful wild-eyed hen.
So fight on through. Your passion's come to die

Unsettled within true nights potent sigh;
The image holds a transformed whip and then
the bogs of Hell are harshly flowing by.
So fight on through. Your passion's come to die.