Amongst The Dead

by Bluesy Socrateaser on Wed Mar 04, 2009 6:54 am

Imprisoned as a captive thought, dreams lay in hopes tomorrow. Morning's fragrance sweet and clean, though moist with tears of sorrow. Should in passing would we meet, inclining to be gracious, much more each one of us could see how strong our love has made us.
Without your touching gift for word, my pen lays uninspired.
Ghostly figures impressed in pulp, tell of spent desires.
Like scattered leaves in tortured breezes so my poetry has fled.
All the memories, once so vibrant, lay still now, amongst the dead.