The Shepherd’s Ewes

The shepherd forsaken, his dreams untrue


colored sullied red, wandering amidst the azure blue


sailing through the beautiful green ferrying


the fantasy wild, of a stranger heart, of the ewes’ moo,


of a curiosity restrained, of the songs undead yet lost


to passions uncrowned, bound to a mere cost


yet rising to enlighten and ask the soul,


Is this how destiny smells when it’s gray?


Is fantasy adamantine, or is it soft as clay?


Is grass greener where heart wanders off to?


Do the ewes moo on a dark misty day?”


seconds die in anticipation ’til the mayday


sun rises, to paint where the heart wanders off to,


for the haze true, stretches the miles few,


for when the shepherd rests and his ewes too,


they dream together of what was born of fantasy,


of grass more green and the azure more blue,


’til there is no color, ’til the nickels won’t stay


when the night masks the dying yellow ray,


the shepherd returns to the broken reigns,


the ewes wander, the ewes’ hopeful moo,


for the night promises when thy master brews,


“Someday, my wordless”


“Someday, the fantasy would wander off to,”


“to where our hearts rest, in a world of me and you”;



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