A winter's Barb has pierced my heart, has made my soul of Frost; my Eyes gleam dimmer in this frozen Dark as Visions dance heedless from stone Lips. Singer, some say, Seer... never Bard; for I tell only may be, nor ever Story give yet I still the Moth-beat of the Sight. Ah, weary Traveler, come nigh, and hear the Hooves clack in my Head; yours, the only Ears for this disclosure; yours, the only Hand to hold this Light. Singer, yes; some say Seer... never Bard; for I am no Bard, my Friend, nor ever Poems preach, yet I still the Moth-beat of the Sight.
© 1989 Tracy McCulloch
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