In younger days through melancholy haze I’d write sorrowful songs
to music I couldn’t play about feelings that didn’t stay and a life that didn’t belong
in the dreams of my world, nor the screams when I curled around my knees deep in the night.
I wouldn’t fight; I couldn’t fight.
So demons I made from eternal golden braids and the ether of 20-something lore.
The world by the horns is a fierce lady scorned that devours with no prejudice to noir.
The songs that I’d sung without music or tongue stopped flowing to paper from pen.
The end? The end.
Like Spring in December and words I can’t remember…
David S. Wisener 