The Lost

12 line poem

Don your robe, cloak and cowl of flapping gray,

As I have worn mine of somber brown these many heartbeats,

We are bound for the forest trail where the soul retreats,

We walk the Wood of the Lost, and the Land of Fallen Prey. 

See you these many figures wrack solitaire beneath the trees

Each one is alone, having turned from desperate dark thought

To know the alienated truth of that Web in which they were caught.

Transfixed, stark and stone set, the figures are a shattered frieze.

Here is the Dweller, how has he crushed in embrace that the great trunkpine,

The social fabric had ripped the independence of that spirit, muse

There is the Lost Nun she who saw too much of God Worship become God Abuse,

And there wearing black and there bearing sword is the Cavernous Cavernous verse Wright (oh the hurt of truth). 

(NOTE last stanza of poem likely in draft stage not quite finished; poem not dated nor stated where in Illinois he wrote this). 

Raymond Lee Collins

copyright reserved by the publisher

Carol A Wells