Raised up on the wind,
My soul flies free,
All worldly chains broken,
All my tears blown away.

Over the teeth of hills and mountains I go,
Knowing not when or where my purpose,
Till an island in a mystic lake I find,
With ruined tower and ivy scaffolds,
Boughs of Mistletoe,
Boughs of Oak,
A misty isle full of spells and mossy damp.

Down I go,
Between the ancient trees,
Down, down to a stone that bleeds,
Amongst sunlit families of Bluebells,
The remains of bones and swords.

This is my final place of rest,
My final place of timeless thoughts.

© DP Jones 12/05/12

Published June 2012

Like alot, thanks for sharing

Thanks for youre comment.