Should I believe in the myth of leaves,
The soul’s oblivion leaning into black waters;
Fingers stretching beyond the shore,
Cast off, blackened on the deadly sands;
The desperate anchorage, the ferryman,
The lonely gaze toward the distant sands:
Corruption’s slow leak of misery and pain;
The stygian moon far removed that stills
All temporal despair; the caged desires,
Beached and soundless, milling about
For a hundred years; thoughts of sorrow
Flashing across blank eyes turned inward;
Of time, the furtive guest: measured anguish;
A darkening love falling from itself into itself?
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.