Tony's poem
posted February 15, 2012 05:35 PM
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Morning Sun will rise one day:
Her bones from the East
Her soul from the West
Her maker, her father,
Her god does his best
He sees her, he knows her
His hands will not rest
Till her shape and her form
Are gracefully blessed
He burns her with fire
With heat he does make
Her will to submit
To his passionate bake.
He shapes her and chafes her
From history he forms
Tradition, the old way
The hard way she's born.
Many men seek her
Few of them find
Most of them clueless
Some even blind
Her virtue is soft
And graceful her lines
Only one man will hold her
She waits in no line
With whispers she greets them
With silence she sings
With blood they respond
Confusion she brings
Her master, her brother
His heart is on wings
He waits for her coming
and together they fling
The sun is undone
The day is diminished
The hunt has been won
The victory finished
The string has been dropped
The beast has made flight
The heart has been stopped
No matter his might
She has finished her job
And bent to his will
Together they go
There's no greater thrill
They made music together
Combined stillness with will
Their quarry laid still
On the side of the hill
I was correct... just like biscuits and gravy!
God bless,Mudd