The chill is gone
The heart is dead
Dry as a bone
Well, without water bed.
Yet promises echo from some pages
Ringing the sound of past ages.
The soul is ill
A crumbling crust
Evil does kill
When I choose the dust.
Yet dim stirrings mildly sensed
Just beyond is a love immense.
How to breathe this fire
And not be consumed?
How to hate the liar?
He has built an inner room.
Take a bath in pools of blood.
Feel it cleanse the inner mud.
Ride the white stallion on high
Learn to live as you learn to die.
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These poems posted this month so far are all older ones...mostly from my very early 20's...they show a less mature, more innocent individual... often wracked with good old protestant guilt. Feel free to skip any of these if you are looking through. Most of the newer stuff is much more interesting. I thought I'd post them all here just to keep the collection more or less complete. I have more to add that were never typed up...and I may or may not do so in the future.
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