The Witherings of Barbosa

No sense of touch
be-cursed was he
the apple but a dream…

long time in past
were eyes so blue
of beauty dream’d…

then as now
he could not touch
so’s a pirate did he die…

Arrrrr

This entry was posted on Saturday, July 29th, 2006 at 10:57 pm and is filed under Poetry & Prose. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.