Wednesday, April 29, 2009

In The Heart of Tell Tale

What renders still in a bleeding heart
that the mind cannot see or want
in fathom... a fallowed field in
the heat of summer surpassed?

When will the stirring replenish
in gush, not uttered in fear
of disastrous distrust?

Who knows the longing of
this rushing engulfed
in Ophelia's madness?

Where does pumping in rhyme
and reason flow to drown
in everclear vision of willow?

Why is the circulation of life
such a mystery, when loneliness
nettles the dew?

No comments:

Post a Comment