These things pull at me.
During the witching hour they stare me in the face,
And keep me company until I am dazed.
The sound of silence is a prelude to their arrival.
For even though I am strong,
I am but a memory expressed in the flesh.
Lord, why must I digress?
These days the senses, I fear, are talon sharp.
Leaving me dazzled and consumed,
They leave me reeling--shame faced.
After all there is nothing I can do.
Is it not my nature but to hope?
My ashes have yet to be consumed, my flesh to be burned.
Lord, why must I confess?
These words make me tremble,
They call me to flight with resolve,
And spurn these wings with jealous rage.
No comments:
Post a Comment