How many times must a man resent his losses?
And cry over the milk that has split,
at the bottom of his grave?
When will the princess
become a mockery of girls?
And the knight,
the man that has all the true love?
When this happens,
the world will be thrown into its torrent;
words and words and syllables,
on the tips of each tongue.
It is when the man with no tongue will laugh,
and be happy that eyes must do the talking.
Then a man can count his losses,
and a princess will be a mockery.
It is then that graves will smile,
and knights will have no love.
But no fear must be felt,
by whom is fearful.
Only those that do not know
because only those that do not know,
a princess is just a girl,
and a grave is just a block of earth.
But no one will realise that spilt milk,
is just a puddle.
I rarely write poetry, stories really are more my thing, but every now and then I get a random spur and attempt to put something into... well something into something like this.