Bard


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.
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