Poetry Year 6th, 7th

August 6th

That rich earth you call your own,

a scent that permeates not just the fibers of your clothes,

but the fabric of your life.

This is you that I will remember.

That sky that hung above your head,

the lights like stars more burning than any of other nights,

that shine in your wicked glance,

and pierce in your withering disdain.

This is you that brands me now.

That wind that rushes across the open plains,

carries the souls of all who tilled these soils,

hunted on these grounds,

made camp by lucid veins of water meandering to the sea.

It drives your movements still,

and sweeps all before you in your eternal energy.

That flowering that is America,

raised on corn, and worshiping the sun,

is now to me directed.

I smile, as you call me your goddess of the sun,

the source from which,

a new harvest will be won.

August 7th

My eyes are blacker than the darkest pit of torture's devising,

my soul is darker than the the midnight that is rising,

my mind as far from daylight as the distant comet's swing,

by love more lost than any living thing.

But once I shined with all fertility,

But once I was enraptured in warm tranquility,

How did this happy state fall to revolution?

It came with her and your love's dissolution.

Her locks were golden and bright reflective,

her glance cat quick and so deceptive,

her mirth tangled round you like kitten's yarn unspun.

She conquered with out battle, without struggle won.

Fair of face, fair of flower, fair of all the graces you admire,

but how unfair the cost to this cold country berift of fire.

(Today's to come later.)