I chased out all the devils
And gave them names.
As One left,
He glared at me
And set fire to my soul.
I saw it all slip by
In the reflections in his eyes.
Silently,
He cursed me,
Hated me.
But somehow,
I wanted to hear him speak,
Even in anger.
I never did hear
My devil speak.
I only heard curtains
Dancing
In moist, midnight winds,
Gesturing
Just beyond the smoke,
Undulating to the rhythm
Of nothing I knew.
The fire in my soul,
Like the candles
Of an August sundown,
Dims
With each day.
Strangely,
I've always hoped he'd return,
As mystic as he left
With eyes of fire
To reignite my passion for love
And living.
The dawn's early light
Seems to open my mind.
Hands gesture to me
Just beyond the smoke.
At last!
My devil has returned.
But his feet are swollen
and back well burnt.
Then, as the caress of moonlight
Uncloaks his eyes,
I see they are as cold as mine.
This now trepid traveler
It seems,
Has become as lost as I.
We two diverge,
Frost nipping at our souls,
Waiting for tomorrow to claim us.
The old men with cold eyes,
Their weathered faces
Lined in pain,
Perhaps their prophecies were true.
The Passion-Giver has lost his passion.
And, what's our world to do?
©JWJ2022
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The Perpetual Array
PoetryIt's just some poems I wrote to help me make sense out of what, at times, feels senseless. They don't all rhyme but there was a reason for every one of them. I hope at least someone can make some sense out of this humble collection, which will und...
