They do not
reach beyond the gate
Those words
without voices left to speak.
Questions
without answers bait
the curious
to eke
out their
existence in empty lines
of lawn and
pine
Manufactured
by the leftovers
Of those who
brought light and dreams…
And those
who died, felled by the whims of fancy.
A world
without shadows is a lonely place
To any
wayward soul.
There are no
wheres to hide, no hidden grace
And weapons
old.
Imagination
is dead, buried under broken wings
Of forgotten
people, places, proper things.
No corners
to enter worlds beyond the scopes
Of already
imagined ideals.
We conform
and the world dies…
Forget the
years, the people, the places, the objects of power
In our
deepest memories of times lost under the scrutiny of disbelievers.
God? A word
used no longer for hope, hanging lofty from the bowers
Of castles,
defiled by deceivers.
H…o…p…e…
slow typing trying to develop a sense of wonder and love
Non-existant
as purity in the eyes of one turtle dove
Without it's
mate in the seas of delirium.
Lo, we are
lost.
ISA
