Friday, May 10, 2013


   With trembling hands, he stands,
A pile of parchment he holds, all folded so neat.
   Who should these letters greet?

None other than his brother.
   So blackened and soiled are his hands, which hold the letters,
Written to his betters.
   An honest man, his brother was, all the letters proclaimed,
But why should all these arrows at me be aimed?
   The man frowned.
A horrid lad, so beastly bad!
  So all the letters had said.
Maybe that is what led to a worse life instead?
   HE had it all!
So why should the blame fall on me?
   Over was I called, however I stalled,
Still was I here, when he steared,
   Nearer and nearer...
to that fated bay.

   Where his enemy laid.

His watery grave holds him as a slave.
   He wasn't brave, merely too far into a rave.
Deeply sighing, he lets go of all.
   Down floats the parchment papers.
They fall and taper together with all the rest,
   On his stone cold breast.


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