Tuesday, January 18, 2011


The witching hour drawing near
Recalls those secret thoughts
Of truth and lie and love and lust
And friendship, time, and dreams:
The first so veiled to shield the self
(And others too) from pain;
The next to fill the gaping void
With joyless, weak facade;
The third, of course, a wretched brew
Of hope and fear combined;
The fourth, its twin begot' of thirst
To fill, again, a void;
The next will sprout to bloom and shine
With bond greater than blood;
But next the sixth at it erodes
And threatens bitterness;
The last is where each of these stem
And whence they meet anew.

So midnight brings a life to these,
And, shattered, puts it back.


Xanthurian said...

I must say, this is one of the most profound posts I have seen in quite a while. And, contrary to how that may sound, that's a very good thing.

Works for most of life, doesn't it?

Reogan said...

I hope so. If poetry can't be universal, than it can't be poetry, y'know?