Sickles Of Remorse

From distant and foreboding lair,

I cry soft into the night.

Unleashing an internal anguish

against the silence of this plight.

Cold sickles of remorse,

Hang now like moss from a dying tree,

Subtle reminders of decisions

Which in haste of heart now cleave.

For decrepit now am I,

all broken and cold.

Railing in angst,

against an empty, unforgiving sky.

But,

"Shush now,

Just be quiet,

Oh simple soul"

Said my mind

"For this hole of sorrow

Will be full

On the morrow,

And you shall no longer care,

Of which is right,

Or fair.

For this distance,

This night,

This trepidation

which culls the radiance

from the eternal light.

So, gather now in this frosty lair

Your remaining dreams

Which like sickles of remorse,

Hang…frozen in time

upon a broken and dying tree."

J. Allen Wilson © 2004