Dead drops the awkward sound
that upon a bards tongue sweeps unbound
where no ears hear, no thoughts endear
to the embrace of the whimsical sound
Of life's tormented holy ground.

It dribbles out upon the cracks
where seldom words fill the slacks
Of human thought, the danced rhythmic tones
that fill the mantel of mortal bones
Only to find the poetic groans.

Awe fills and finds itself aware
where the valley gleams upon our stare
The shadowed forms of long past dreams
Are these bards that fill within their screams
All the passion of our mortal streams.

To linger or fade forever away
where words embrace, hold and stray
Their ancient voices upon the air
that dares to dream, dares to share
The tender moment beyond compare.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph