Angel Piscola



Words do flow from rivers winding,
fingers type and feelings fly.
I wrack with shivers fastly binding
from the coldness of the sky.

Sunshine beckons on the 'rizon
calling with a ray of wheat;
a melancholy cloud does widen
waiting for my sure defeat.

Yet stand will I, and fight the powers
wishing me to fail and break,
my heart and mind like mighty towers
o'erlooking your sweet lake.