An otherworldly white rose appears full bloom
on the mantle to soothe our harsh tomorrows.
Where does the lithe spirit we abandoned loom?
Alive, alive in memory, not in sorrow.
The dread apparitions that claim you nightly,
will they too, come with us on our final run,
then in drear spite, haunt us anew frightfully,
and dwell in this dream’s remainder like a sun?
Will the fear of what we’ve come to understand,
proud in lop-top-sided triumph, embrace us?
A thousand turbulent miles from land lies more land,
here, the dolphins hypnotize with arcing trust.
The ocean of our past informs us, and gleams;
beneath tormented skies, prophets’ poems speak
while silent seamsters sew spirit to our dreams.
We can’t forget what we’ve lost for what we seek.
Can we summon the extent of what we know,
how we know it, and make when conform to now?
There is nothing more sound than a falcon’s show,
only a dove’s return with what love might allow.
Hi Richard,
Long time no see! I didn't find any asterisks behind your post so you probably don't want any critique. Besides, I think you may have found a few answers to those questions on the way over. Thanks for the thought provoking post.
Larry
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