Some sleeping boors dig noise inane.
You look for spring but fall is all: both calendar and decline's gall.
Ask a friend of days of yore
And know reprising's seen a chore.
Folks have moved on and you are stuck
Unspoken words: "schmuck, outta luck."
You fondle shreds of rotting lace
And hold your buddy's guts in place.
Medic solemn nods the lie
So all of you will not die.
While love you knew you can't erase
As graceful end's a chance embrace.
Pray for hearts you'd see again
And shut the door on wicked men
Who feign devotion to the "real"
While loving your soul's upturned keel.
Could they sink your link to Him
With black guffaws while cursing vim?
The choice is ours, to walk or kneel
And haters lose when lovers heal.
No comments:
Post a Comment