A Sonet for a Sunday Afternoon

A Sonnet: Burning (by Me)

Such loving hands define thy gentle form,
Each mark inspired by gentle God above,
How many lives each thought then did transform,
Full tales of noble chivalry and love.

How long they sleep in darkest corner hid,
Forgotten, through once loved by each man,
Restored to former glory like “El Cid,”
Though Time’s tiered mind has come and ran.

New shadows creep across the darkened sky,
Good friends laid waste and naked on the pyre,
Remorseless hands strike out, as they all cry,
E’er lost within the all consuming fire.

Bright tongues lift high and angry crimson glows,
The blood-like ink from which a river flows.