and in its temperature
burns all within its path
a touch there is no cure
only another, flow of time
In love, flowed contentment
of many bitter hearts envied
though crossroads breed resentment
there is no such a feeling freed
than love in its fulfillment
In regret, flowed tears
though eyes are dry in remembrance
feeding greedily from one's fears
staring blankly in a trance
of past deeds counted in years
In fear, flowed vulnerability
cloaked in lies, laced with illusions
procrastinating the reality
against there is no other weapon
only truth faced, what will be, will be
In life, one follows a road
which no one could draw a map
some chattering beaver might goad
and one might easily fall in a trap
or end up finding Suleiman’s hoard
Still, it is a road that we now follow,
be in anger, love, regret, fear,
or perhaps without, when one is hollow,
losing everything they held dear,
the end be pride or the gallows
And the life we lead, we live then,
only God knows to what end.
« return.