Capturing A Whisper

No heart remains in which to capture the whisper of the abating wind.

Our folly is given over to the jester; whilst laughter comes again and again.

So lonely now is the broken saint that weeps sore beneath the Joshua tree.

Suppositions of life’s parodies played out on the forgotten essence of need.

Minions bold and boisterous march single file to dark tunes in their head.

Wayfarers lost ride black stallions….dogmas sinister raise the sleeping dead.

So speak of nothing, nor give ear to this a last and final plea.

For no heart remains in which to capture the whisper that was once me.

J. Allen Wilson © 2-2008