How grim are the children of shadows. Their rooms cast a faint glow over them, And their keepers; the ghosts of sleep. Men and women, abusers of their obligation, abscond, With injury and wickedness jumps their lullaby, Hush little baby don’t you cry… This throbbing tune Has teeth to rip, Has fist to strike, To bring blood where only love should be flattered. To hold mirth and clear eyes and things of gladness Aloft in the bright passageway of serenity. How grim are the children of shadows. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)