The Falcon
By: Alayia Rizzi 14, November 2012
Churning, turning, creaking,
The cogs never ceasing.
What say you, dear Madame?
Take you, me a madman?
The gyre, ever widening,
Gives me room for nothing,
Pray, give me leave of you,
So that I may see who
Will come to me in time,
That I may see what is mine.
Churning, turning, screeching,
Hear you that, sweetling?
Leave me. No flattery,
Enough. I must to see,
My beauty, my life, perched
Upon my limb in the
Midst of revolution.
Churning, turning, creaking,
The cogs never ceasing.
What say you, dear Madame?
Take you, me a madman?
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.10 seconds at 8:07am on Nov 24, 2024 via server WEBX2.