the mystery of the shadows in fields

Piddlesticks, fiddlesticks, cats on a popsicle,
Swing low, swing high, swing sickleful,
Words are a merry band of high browed zen,
drunk on their own men, filled to the brink now and then,
but on their own they are waveless as sorrowful crows,
spilling onto a field in bombastic blows,
fleeing into the silence of the rows.

1 comments
Anonymous
Anonymous

awesome I like it... I shall read your info but what faith/nonfaith/spirituality do you label or not wish to label yourself