Sunday, March 17, 2013



He is as old as time and young as the spring

A visage in black to make hands wring

Cold and weary red eyes stare into fire

Cracked lips that mumble prophesy most dire

Madman say some and prophet he be

The Minstrel of lore from across distant seas

Heed not his words nor music of lute and lyre

From tales of woe to loves lost desire

Words of war ill fates by degree

I should know whom was taught at his knee

So feel free to join me and share of my fire

For i shall tell these tales as long as you desire

-The Minstrel