Tink's ChapBlog ~ Tales of the Tribe. Mythopoeic Verse


Cold is the color

    of mid-winter hoar;

gold is a feeling

    I felt once before.



    I hereby declare

the end of involvement,

   unfairness of war.


So near and so far,

    too close for some,

one dearly departed

    from what once begun

as gold, now cold,

    in the hot humid sun:


This is your weapon;

    that was your gun.


The child knows his pleasure,

    when the man looses fun.




©2013, Marvin Loyd Welborn


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