Knowing that he,

Now disrobed from his wreaths of reign,

Set free from his constant pain.

 

Knowing that he,

With an unopened heart he lay,

Among snakes he now drowns in clay.

 

Knowing that he,

Untouched by the vibrant voices of the siren’s calls,

Survived the stays down long twelfth floor halls.

 

Knowing that he,

Conqueror of the midland’s fields of wheat,

Never a life so undone and so discrete.

 

Knowing that he,

Delivery agent of the compass made of gold,

Still his story has yet to unfold.

 

Knowing that he,

With flesh untouched by virgin’s hands,

Until the very end he had plans.

 

Knowing that he,

Never sung the choir’s song,

He knew on earth he did not belong.

 

Knowing that he,

Accomplished the greatest master piece,

Truly they know he is without cease.

 

Knowing that he,

Inside the grand depth deep.

Forever now he will sleep.

 

 

© 2006 David Greg Harth

06.03.09.07:42:44@296NYC