Old Flame
I saw him standing in the street
he so vacant eyed and weak,
refused to see me as I passed
For I recall the summer last,
when fireflies shimmered in the stream
and he had promised me a dream
before he set his soul on fire
with mistresses of white desire
and now his ashen face decries
the way a burning passion dies.
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006
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