It is the silence
Of the night
That permits the echo
Of yesterday
To repeat;
So I must dream softly
On the surface
That the life
I have accustomed
Would not tomorrow’s
Whispered siren
Itself delete;
From a tapestry
Of patterns
In designs
Of distant Kingdoms
Where my lost and
Wandering spirit
Does retreat;
What is more the burden?
How I’ve sinned in my confessions?
Or the longing for temptation’s
Constant beat?
2012.09.28.0130 ©