So Many flowers were born And so many blushes unseen frozen smiles, lay stiff and cold repressed of their noble breath a waste of sweetness, a mute quench of ingenuous shame. Their names, their faces are spelled by an unlettered Muse by a passing tribute of an elegy, a shapeless voice pleasing, but anxiously resigned to fill that unwonted forgetfulness. In some breast thy spirit will grow inquire thy destiny thy fate for what will cross your strength your woeful hope, your pray forlorn, buried under the Stone overgrown with aged thorns. The earliest of days, still come the latest of the nights still linger with hasty steps approaching the honour’s neglected voice, the provoking dust of silence, soothing the deaf ears, and the blind eyes. Copyright kc From the Verse Cycle TO YOU.