I met a guy, who could not die,
He said his life was not his own,
To leave behind, a hurting mind,
Grieving over dust and bone.
I met a lady, dark and shady,
She said her life was dull and drear,
She said her child, was running wild,
Because for her, she was not there.
I met a tramp, he was cold and damp,
As he trudged beneath a midnight sky,
He said the dead, spoke in his head,
While the living, silent, passed him by.
I met a nun, all bleak and glum,
She said she had to run away,
All dressed in black, she n’er looked back,
And the Gargoyles frowned in dark dismay.
I met a wounded Christ, on a secret tryst,
As he dragged his cross across the sands,
And the blood poured red from his thorn-pierced head,
And gushed freely from his feet and hands.
I met Old Nick, on a crooked stick,
He said he n’er more wished to sin,
And the warrior’s blood, in which he stood,
Was from a war, no side could win.
I met a Friar, atop a spire,
They wind blew hard through his tattered robes,
He had donned his shroud, on a nuclear cloud,
And his halo was the lightning’s strobes.
I met a miser ( he was non the wiser ),
As he gathered up his golden hoard,
Little knowing ( where he was going ),
They did not charge for bed and board.
I met an angler, and a cowboy wrangler,
As they ate a meal of fish and beef,
The wrangler roped, on a hilly slope,
And the angler fished from a rocky reef.
I met a child, unkempt and wild,
As he swung upon a creaking swing,
Though of tender years, he wept blood for tears,
And he n’er would hear the morning sing.
Into a mirror, I looked in terror,
And I saw my whole life flashing past,
I had seen the world, all smudged and blurred,
And the ghosts I’d seen, would be my last.
T’is hard to try, and reason why,
Our lives are torn and flaked with rust,
Our hopes and dreams, life-bearing streams,
Our fields all blown away in dust.
Ambrose Harte
Scattered Thoughts
baratheonpilled
annaxmalina
blakekathryn
yousharknotpass
