A Scrap From the Loom
A Poem
A Scrap From the Loom
Behind the sun does hide the highest precipice of heaven,
Beyond the clouds the lofty crags are carried up to be obscured,
But in the eyes of men, islands formed of ice are all that provide,
And precious time goes unpraised by the people of pride.
Windswept cliffs are silent in the moon’s steady entrancing shine,
The beasts are ever about, they bark and writhe and bellow,
And the voice of men quiver with madness under moonlight’s muse,
But gods are at play, guarding Hades, guiding the weft of the ground.