The wonder the loner holds out for grace, the maker's mercy.
Though full of care. He stares, of course, forced to roll.
The freezing fairs sea with bare hands.
Take the exiles where fate dictates the earth stepper spoke.
He's full of hardship. Of brutal battle.
The death of kith and kin. Often at first look of light I lament my soul way No one left to open myself up to holy heart and soul.
Sure. I know it's the noble custom for an hour to buying first.
What's in his breast? Haugaard. Innermost thoughts.
Think what he will. The weary mind can't fight fate.
Nor will grim grit help. Driven men often harbour children fast in their chests.
So I at sea in my angst wretched outcast from my land.
Far from kind kindred braced myself.
Having buried my large captive logged years back in black earth.
Abject, I wonder. Winter weary, the icy waves longing for lost tolerance.
Helping hand far or near.
Maybe. I find one who tossed me in the hall who comfort me, friendless, slightly entertaining me.
Any who attempted know what cruel company sorrow can be for a soul without a single mate.
Exile's path holds. I'm not finished. Cold a frozen heart.
Not the world's wonders. He recalls retainers reaping treasure haul in his youth, his lavage.
The judge vetted and feasted him. Or is history?
He who lacks a beloved Lord's concern knows the story.
Whenever sorrow or sleep combined, the wretched recluse often dreams that he is with his life of Lord.
He gasps and kisses him, lays his hands and head on those knees.
Love is the liberal ruler, as in while I'm days.
As soon as the sober man wakes, he sees nothing but fallow furrows.
See board puddle and preen feathers.
Snow and frost combined forces.
Then his heart weighs even heavier. Sure.
For the Lord, Lord. Sorrow renewed.
He recalls his friends from the past. Gladly greets them.
Feast his eyes. His mates swim in waves of memory.
Those fellows float away in his mind, barely utter a word.
Down again, the man knows he must cast his harrowed heart over frigid waves.
It's not hard to guess why in the world by spirits in such a stark state.
As I consider the lives of those Lords.
How they abruptly quit the homes.
Those bold young ones. In this way.
The world. Day after day. Fails and falls.
For sure. No man's wise without his share of winters in this world.
He must be patient. Not too keen. Not hot tongued.
Not easily led, not foolhardy, not timid, not all gusto, not greedy, not too cocky.
He knows life. A man should take stock before evolve.
Ready himself for action. Be mindful of the minds, twists and turns.
The wise man knows how ghastly it'll be when all the world's wealth is wasted.
As in many regions on earth today.
The still standing mall's wind wracked ice pond.
Each edifice on the snow. The halls for the Lords lie low.
No more revels. Troops of gallant veterans.
Lies delivered by the war. Some fell in Parker ball away.
Others formed by vultures over the ocean.
Others, the poor wolf, wolfed down.
Others a noble laid in a cave, his me and a dead mask of grief.
So the shape of the earth west. On terror.
Bereft of human life. The ancient works of drawings stand empty.
Anyone who dwells on these battlements ponders each stage of our dark life will wisely survey the distant past.
The marriage struggles. And it's claim.
Where is the harsh gun? The young bucks. The crying king.
Where is the banquet assembly? The merrymaking.
Or the glistening glass. Or the uniformed men of the general's glory.
How that time has passed. Nitro.
It's all as if nothing ever was. Now all that is left of those veterans is a taller wall linked with serpent devils.
Missiles slaughtered those who served. Weapons amassed from all.
An incredible end. Hurricanes attacked the rocky coast.
Snow storms sheath the earth. Winter's tumult darkens, then night shadows deepen, drives hailstorms out of the north to try us solely.
This earthly realm is froth.
Faith changes everything under the sun. Yeah, well, it is brief.
Friendship brief. Man brief. Kinship brief.
All Human Foundation falls to north.
So spoke to man from his heart. Using a part.
Blessed is he who holds true. No man should openly bear his hat, have chips, unless he already knows the cure.
That is his great feat. It's well to seek solace from the maker.
Our only security.