Rhyme

the sunset came, as it had went,
into the misty lands.
the water sprung, like shots from brent,
into the rocks' own hands.
i sit inside, a dream like a tent,
the shadows on the sands.

i strive to write, so few a words,
enough to make a rhyme,
i toddle through, the paths of birds,
screaming through my mime.
i pryingly clear, my doubt of herds,
my vision though sublime.

i try to fight, the unnumbered tears,
which all those eyes weep,
i try and bend, their gruesome fears,
like a miser's keep.
they sway, they still, those aged Lears,
through them the wisdom seeps

at last i pick, the pencil up,
some words doth I write,
it seems as if, on me they sup,
these blackened sooty sprites,
my thoughts they are, not keeping up,
my fingers as they write.