Just a packet of letters a while ago you were,
Now in vaprous symphony of gray
I send you back to her,
For the spirit of true love that’s penned,
Must rise to meet her soul
In pearly glory ’round her head.
Love’s halo—is its goal.
To rake over the dead ashes of a burnt out love one must use the pen point of poetry.
THE LUTE
The lute, a barrier to song of soul.
For none save God
Can music charm
From out a thing man-made.
A bowl of wood,
A string or two to arm
The troubadour with weapon strong.
POWERLESS
When I see a look of sadness,
In the eyes of You,
Thoughts of grief akin to madness
Surge my being through.
Am I then so weak and helpless,
That I can not send
Even shadowings of sorrows
To their deserved end.