“The Curse of The Dreamer”
My cross is the curse of the dreamer-
To always be seeking some grail.
To never accept with contentment,
The hand I’ve been dealt in life’s vale.
My heart is the heart of the wastrel-
Like bold Henry Morgan of old.
Who kept on despoiling the Spaniards-
E’en though he’d no room for their gold.
My eyes are the eyes of the prophet-
Mystically gazing afar-
Discerning men’s hearts all too clearly-
And reading them just as they are.
My soul is the soul of a warrior-
Hard, scarred, and marred by my past,
‘Twill only find vic’try by dying-
And thrill to the pipes till the last.
My tongue is the tongue of the poet-
Adroitly twisting each word-
To wring out it’s last drop of meaning
Till emotions and visions are stirred.
My trail is the path of the wild goose-
Unseen and untrodden my men...
The wolf of the wild is my brother,
The dark of the night is my friend.
The moon is my lonely companion
The stars are the tears of my soul...
My name shall be etched as by acid-
Somewhere on the bard’s Honor Role.