Sphinx and Sheep: Poetry

Neither sphinx nor sheep
September sleep.
They watch the fields
to guard their keep.

And when they might
begin to yawn,
it’s already
the break of dawn.

And so another
day begin
for sphinx and sheep
and loss and win.

But when the cycle
finally break,
some rest
the guardians shall take.

Until the cycle
start anew,
and sphinx a sheep
bid sleep adieu.

With claws and hooves
dug in the ground,
their effort like
a cannon sound.

To keep aloft
the flag of old,
ignoring its
now faded gold.

A futile task
they’ve sworn to keep:
that obdurate sphinx
and obstinate sheep.

They might just hum
a marching tune,
hoping to bring
themselves past noon.

And then they’re only
halfway there,
so bury any
clear despair.

Because there is
no final stretch,
this rigged race built
to make your retch.

They’ll bury this
within their head,
lest sphinx and sheep
be seeing red.

For rallying
is all they know,
and they’ll be damned
to let it go.

Though even if
an inch is won,
another foot
will soon be gone.

For all this work
just boils down
to memories of
an ancient crown.

Yet sphinx and sheep
the field do take,
just doing it
for their own sake.

For eras that
have long since past,
desperate to
make it last.

A selfish motive?
Well, perhaps.
they still don their caps

And push their way
up hills too steep
for stubborn defense
of their keep.

For when the era
finally ceases,
the flags pulled down
to organ wheezes,

The sphinx and sheep
can finally rest,
knowing that they
did their best.

But, until
that day does come,
you’re sure to hear
sphinx and sheep’s hum

Of marching tunes
from days of old:
remembering life’s
truest gold.

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