If I were to cry the mountain would it crash upon the sea?

Would a rise to fame and fortune be plenty enough for me?

The lips are mighty, aye and an angry voice sealed,

Asking for silence by the type of sword we wield.

Ride. Ride my fair lady. Ride the seas of grief,

Rest your head my lady. Suffer the land underneath.

Wicked wine. Oh, my how the head it doth turn,

Drink hearty my children, for the morrow brings a lesson learned.

Shattered rejection wondering of the fractured chills,

Fallen illusions well played destructive ills.

Come see. Come see my elusive spellbound dreams,

Rolling like the oceans waves the loss of many things.

© Cynthia Clark