Hanging Over

Where will we be in our wandering hours,

When the quarter light splits the night

And we toll the dreaded dower?

Recalling divine heroes of mendacious dreams;

Clad with charm and courage

To win the heart of fair maiden.

Never a vile wretch of visceral intent;

Hound laden. 

We never question its worth,

Trying to remember 

Memories of memories.

Sunday morning was made 

For tapping at the door,

And made to lurk about the house,

Play the great predatory game,

Building a dead man's gallows.

Reviews

[LapseOfMind]

My wandering hours used to be full of drunken debauchery. Nice job on the poem