swords of misspelled madness tingle deep.
placid light blinks and vainly flickers on,
soft, yellow flesh but a candle in the wind
be misread, refracted in the murky waters.
it the secular tiger's sin or but the Lamb?
answer bites as deeply as the surge of silence,
beacon, as the light, misdirected to wander the wind.
of aimless memories, where all confusion dwells,
harshly now that we may hear the sounds
echoing footsteps walking swiftly, quietly away.
emotion's warm, flaming touch forever lost
to wander among the shadows or memories past?
forests are so deep, and the children forget with age
How to sing and dance in the rain.
~~~ by Michael Chaussee