Pendragon
01-27-2009, 06:42 PM
It Is Not the End
The fog hangs like a shroud in the skeleton trees,
The wind is moaning like a forgotten soul—
The trees bow before him, but they won’t bend the knees,
Far too old are they and too strong.
The icicle fangs hang up high in the branches,
Where the leaves will burst forth in the spring—
Promise of hope, and of second chances,
That death is truly not the end of all things…
Down by the oak roots, a broken gravestone stands,
Remembrance of someone now passed and gone—
Dust unto dust, the way everything ends,
Out on a hillside, so quiet and alone…
But if the leaves and the flowers come back again,
Perhaps there is still returning for the children of men…
Pendragon
© 1/27/2009
A Sonnet From the Dragon
The fog hangs like a shroud in the skeleton trees,
The wind is moaning like a forgotten soul—
The trees bow before him, but they won’t bend the knees,
Far too old are they and too strong.
The icicle fangs hang up high in the branches,
Where the leaves will burst forth in the spring—
Promise of hope, and of second chances,
That death is truly not the end of all things…
Down by the oak roots, a broken gravestone stands,
Remembrance of someone now passed and gone—
Dust unto dust, the way everything ends,
Out on a hillside, so quiet and alone…
But if the leaves and the flowers come back again,
Perhaps there is still returning for the children of men…
Pendragon
© 1/27/2009
A Sonnet From the Dragon