Tis not a folly to mock but a fool,

Tis just a heart full of cold

And a wind that dares to break the soul within.

Tis be nothing,

To be true,

To be told now,

Whilst the sanctity,

of the hour,

threaten the dappled heart.


And Hark says the angel

Who watches over the petty soul.

Alas says the poor shepherd

Who is begotten by the watcher's kin.

There is nothing

to be remembered here,

But some words strung like leaves,

Upon a summer's closing night.