Bereave, conceive, believe
in thee; abeyance taints thine senses
on a pane of mental mirrors, quick
to grasp the tears of crimson
fleeting from the river's
flow.
Tacit motives hint at truth,
while wisps of color regain hue,
shallow depths of eyes do
gleam
in the heart of splendors vast regime,
Melancholy songs do ring about the halls
of yesteryear, a mating call to forlorn
minds starving on the sands of time.
With age to call the reaper's own,
spiders stir about the pupil's cheek,
without warning, bold and bleak,
shadows lurk upon decrepit mentalities
forgotten as the orphan's lament,
such is the woe in life's own disregard
for humble men to dwell in
pain, yet
shallow depths of eyes still gleam.
