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(love's lost)


Crimson swords of misspelled madness tingle deep.

The placid light blinks and vainly flickers on,

Its' soft, yellow flesh but a candle in the wind

To be misread, refracted in the murky waters.

Was it the secular tiger's sin or but the Lamb?

No answer bites as deeply as the surge of silence,

A beacon, as the light, misdirected to wander the wind.


House of aimless memories, where all confusion dwells,

Speak harshly now that we may hear the sounds

Of echoing footsteps walking swiftly, quietly away.

Is emotion's warm, flaming touch forever lost

Doomed to wander among the shadows or memories past?

The forests are so deep, and the children forget with age

How to sing and dance in the rain.


                                                                                   ~~~ by Michael Chaussee



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