Horrible Art

In all the hills, they dwell and be,
But long to see them free.
For wanders off the plaque and stone,
Bare no stories, but in the tome.


Why, when the heart did sing for thee,
You craved for fear: of love and me.
For the setting of the sun and arch,
Brings on wings, the song, with robin’s-dart
To only twist and bind, in the cage of mind.

conceiving that horrible art.

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