As of late, red no longer stirs

the passions of yesterdays.

Music that falls on my shoulders

doesn't brush my heart

with promises of love

since I have grown older.

.

The full moon is flat and dull,

its ivory patina grown old

and pitted like a gray hag

with no lover to hold

while the nights grow cold.

God -the nights are cold.

.

My muse sits in the corner,

its inspiration slim.

Lord, show me the way-

my light is growing dim-

my light is growing dim.

01/01/2007

Posted on 01/01/2007
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