Behold the keeper of Soul, passing it on one hundred fold, ye' likeness; I may say it vane, twas' the prophecy of being sane. Chances count of triumph sold, bared to view-which is old. Might I be thee' striding death, Running on- without breath. Shall not see thee' left behind. Suffered from vision thou' is blind. Twas' with a sprint, I shadowed thee', to never run on or be set free. Take in my grimace, run worthy my mind, for I have witnessed...and you are behind!
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it's beautiful. i don't usually read poems like this, but, i like yours. it's unique and exciting. --lost poet--
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I like it.. though Im not usually into such flowery poetry its good.
hmm...shakespeare's words. i dunno..so sorry :P
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