By sevens they fall, the words of the kings
There Chaucer thru Troilus brang forth royal rime
Before me, the poet, the one whose soul sings
All manner of song, to pass beyond time.
Scenes then of war and love and of crime.
What then, is in me as words gather a riot?
Pallette of my blood, to colour the quiet.
The shaper of all that rise above the daily;
The being and seeing, all that do pass.
In what do I hold that laugh - so gaily?
A place no one sees, where no one will ask.
That something else beyond caste or class.
That I may call, when down, upon it's verve
It do touch my senses and spur on my nerve.
Darren
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