Monday, October 6, 2014
The illustrator of modern times deposed his brother,
Those wasted few deceived one another to begin an era;
This year the worst year was erupting from the volcano,
So that beneath the ground was a giant of treasure.
The illustrator of a poised planet was upon the grade,
Understanding the minor actions was worth itself,
And the victory that amounted to features was being told,
The worst year apologised due to godly golden objects.
The likely belief was fine and square, little afforded the trouble,
For the beliefs of a time were perfect and still,
In the whole lake of the plentiful gold and silver,
In the whole plague that stood like molten rivers of silver.
Topic(s) of this poem: imaginings