beyond an evening of spoiled promise, i

chase sunsets through

the dense green of another spring,

walk home barefooted, singing, sighing

that there exists no more terrible evil

than the worship of old gods by young voices,

their golden honeysuckle nectar

caught naked and unaware

by a loitering frost which crouches,

waiting, behind the trunk

around which they climb.

One thought on “lament

  1. A warning and a mystifying piece.

    thanks for the comment, tomachfive. the tragedy of youth which doesn’t fulfill its promise is just something with which i’m not yet comfortable enough to write directly, i guess


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