Wednesday, June 29, 2016



Words in lonely echoes fall
No ear to  count their metre
Once a full and bustling hall
Hosts not serf nor praetor

Dust motes in the air drift down
And gather in the corners
Stir as versifier turned clown
Searches but no mourners 

Sit in solemn grief at loss
Off they scattered oblivious
All had fallen to dross 
Daily life was lascivious

Most were lured by promises
Of greater finds afield
Left were doubting Thomases 
Awkward pens to wield

~ Ellen Apple 6/29/2016 

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