The Mourning Hours

In his bath he squandered the morning hours

Not wood for the fire nor water for the finch

Alone he called from the ages

Visions of love from poets lost who had been struck at once… like he

His lost hours a gift to no one

His words palpable yet bereft of substance

Not of things worldly like wood

But deeper substance the gift of love

No matter the dawn should rain clouds come

For once the sun had shown upon him

In the night he had lain bare before its throne

Just to hear her whispered song until the dawn

Of her despair he could not counter

From the fatal blows he could not save

Love the beast that will not quarry

Once surrounded no one to save

So moments alone live in its glory

Allow the fire to burn to coal

I have touched her face mine eyes upon her

To her love… I always go

In his bath he squandered the morning hours

Not wood for the fire nor water for the finch

Alone he called from the ages

Visions of love from poets lost who had been struck at once… like he

Reviews

[Whiskurz]

I liked this piece my friend......Good write.....Whisk