I heard the spring-joys call my name
At long-last love I would not brave
It does not hear but all the same
And at least if nothing but the truth
Of lives of which I could not save
All but troubled by their youth
When I cannot recall my own name
I heard a desert full of people
There their souls are kindly perched
Lasting forever up upon a steeple
An endless line of which innocence is searched
What clocks tick tick with time
And to my own gapeless name
Whatever something more sincere than mine
But it is softly driving me insane
(TO BE CONTINUED)
© Copyright 2016 Alex Sharpe. All rights reserved.
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