Whisperer

Let me
Dip
My hands
Into the well
Of your patience
And slake
Anger
At your mercy
Or else
Bridle me
Claim me
As the eye
Does the storm

Stone Sentry

In the tingling cold
The lion’s mane
Grows large and bold
Coated by a gentle snow
His stone façade
Becomes a show
Of tranquil night
And calming deep
A vigilant guard, at last
Asleep

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