One need not read her horoscope to know
this woman's fate, and though wisteria
cascades sweet blooms of lavender like snow
outside her door, it's still Siberia
pervading the dimensions of her mind,
for not one fickle thought or patch of moss
can thrive where bleakest shadows are enshrined.
No bittersweet, no dew drops. . . only loss
surrounds her heart. She tries to reminisce,
but like a barren continent grown cold,
she can't perceive one particle of bliss.
She's clasping grief and cannot be consoled!
Wisteria's perfume is in the breeze,
but in her soul remains a winter's freeze.
Sonnet with Iambic Pentameter, Written by Andrea Dietrich, Sept. 24, 2014
for the Structured Forms Iambic Verse II Poetry Contest of Giorgio A. V.
I walk upon a green feathered hilltop
To find your soul, I lost long ago
Lay flowers where your grave says stop
and sit in silence till' the sun is low
I'll bow my head in search for loneliness
With hands trembling cradle tears that fall
And feel the sadness of emptiness,
while listening for the unanswered call
There is no time pain's loss can quell
No answer to quiet the question why
Life moves on and there is only hell
Searching for you, lost, my eyes still cry
I'll claim no noble dignity or deed
Find nothing alone on this hill, but need
When pain hits hard, you might feel like your soul
is bleeding out, but there’s no blood to see.
Your body is the part that takes the toll,
and physically you feel the agony.
Perhaps the pain goes to your heart as though
a knife has sliced right through it, or you feel
it in your gut as if you took a blow.
No cut or bruise is shown, yet it is real!
When both the body and the spirit seem
to reach their limit, tears are overdue.
You have to let those tears go! Let them stream
and carry out the bitterness for you.
An empty tissue box becomes the sign
that soon, and hopefully, you will be fine.
The saddest sound in all the world,
The bagpipes weep as raindrop pearls
Land to take on grass-green hue:
Tears to mourn the loss of you.
Your boys line up with shaking lips
And breaking hearts to numbly grip
Your modest coffin; spirits brave,
They trek toward your dewy grave.
We follow you through wind and rain.
The pipes still croon their sad refrain.
We bury you with roses white,
A tragic yet tremendous rite.
And as you sleep beneath the ground,
The echoes of your life resound.
When the wind whispers your names in my ear
This void craves for a glimpse of your faces
Recalling times in a happier sphere
Now soured silently in empty spaces
And when drums pulsates your voices in force
This void yearns and grumbles for a tumble
As the teardrops fall, the mood changes coarse
While the resolve commences to crumble
And when the crescendo becomes unkind
This void hungers for specks of your being
To comfort the pain in this heart and mind
To make sense of this life without meaning
Though this bruised void accepts it is God’s way
Each summer breeze begets thoughts that betray
Penned by: Ronald Zammit
In Memory of Andrew and Timothy
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord. Job1:21
There is no more of love, no scent of it,
Upon the pillow where he lays his head.
Just the cold grey silence of where he sits,
Knowing, the essence of the house is dead.
Love is a simple thing, which only knows
Of love, and not the careless ways of men.
It cannot reason with the mortal blows,
That hurls it towards oblivion.
There is nothing now, but the reality.
An emptiness, and the grim fantasies,
Of the steady step, to finality.
The slow decline, to abnormality.
Where sad and pointless years that lay ahead,
Are filled with loathing, and a sense of dread.
Like Frankenstein, I, too, am loathed to death;
I walk this earth devoid of friend and hearth,--
devoid of joy from the time of my birth
and from the first draw of my infant's breath.
An outcast and a pariah among
the friended, I exist without the mirth
and glee of those born of happier worth,
esteem and prize,--O would that I belong!
Still, I am loved of my dear family
and most loved friends, my books, and by my God
and e'en by my most oft-read poetry.
These things I cherish, honor, and must laud
with gratitude and thanks religiously
and be content as worms in a blesséd sod.
I Kiss the rain for it hides the tears
As they flow down my face
All the bottled up sadness and fears
They won't look out of place
For no one can tell that I'm in pain
How heavy my heart may be
When I stand up tall and kiss the rain
The drops will hide so no one can see
They say the rain will cleanse you
Just Like a shower or a bath
So I'll use the rain to renew
To Decide upon a new path
So kiss the rain when you need to
No one will know but you.
What beauty shared with carefree steps,
your laughing heart would trip with grace
and lift our spirits as you slept,
a soul that's swept to our embrace.
Unfurrowed brow with silken cheeks
that blush with youthful innocence,
now safe within a world we'll seek
when all our days on earth are spent.
So wait Dear Heart, we will be there,
older and with tell-tale traces
from smiles of stories that we shared
reminded of your lovely face.
In time, my darling, we will come
to find you still forever young.
In honor of my friend's young daughter who was murdered last week.
One beautiful lie , an unvoiced sonnet
Words veiled with a crime that steals my hearts last beat
Slow turn of your mood shows me disquiet
With kisses warm and vulgar with deceit.
One pulse stills, our love was not the one love,
Just remains of a lukewarm cup of tea.
You steep and brood, one pineing the lost dove.
My broken wing lame, I fall into the sea.
Beautiful lies, my heart begs for your fires
To hear the words forged my way by anvil
Beautiful lies, hope grows dim and expires
Waiting for judgment by divine gavel
Tremble my lips , tears fall dry from my eyes
Protect me from madness, beautiful lies.
Where were you when my world fell apart?
The Sun darkened and the Moon just fled.
All had been done and all had been said.
And ripped to shreds was my beating heart.
Even the Seas began to part.
And the Mountain tops spread.
I lay there completely dead.
Even the Stars I could not chart.
If only you knew,
If only you were there,
If only you had a clue!
If only life had been fair!
I’d turn the clocks back,
Still standing dead in my track!
Oh pearl of the world, opalescent daughter of nacre
Venus borne up in a shell from the shimmering sea
Had I known your loveliness would be a trouble maker
So gladly, so happily, I would have let you be
A dream so richly rare to ignite a weak man's greed
A burning thirst that only having you could quench
By night we hide, they fire a shot and then my dirty deed
The thieves lie dead before me but still the pearl I clench
Juana keens a high and shrilling moan of deep travail
I rush to them.. What can it be that causes such distress?
My son, my Coyotito, so cold, so still, so pale...
I damn, I damn, this devil's jewel that I possess!
Ahead a life of emptiness, that no riches can restore
Into the sea, oh witch's spawn, your curse shall kill no more!
March 8, 2013. Based on John Steinbeck's novella "The Pearl".
Natural perfect pearls of good size are very rare and quite expensive.
Now picking up the pieces,
From a heart full of bruises
Dementia, pain and depression,
Saturate my heart extension.
She was a walking rainbow,
I saw when the sun went low.
She was a rare specie around town,
Which I did not realize until now.
Just like a sugary fleeting vine,
Made she my life a tasteless wine.
Every night I sit and ask the moon,
Why did she have to leave so soon.
I wish I could turn back the clock to gain;
Her, I will be willing to take a bullet, through my brain.
what makes the heart feel for something it can't touch?
his tears caused contractions for his heart to pulse
floundered, looking for loves heartache to clutch
whimsical solace of her essence startles his impulse
shouldering the bane of a kiss that foreshadowed trifles
kooky huh? how time unleashes emotions restrained behind pride
losing his beloved inamorata to an admirer she mollycoddles
his heart became friable to the echo of her suicide
It was the absence of a note that left his worries unverified
what makes the heart feel for something it can't touch?
Now alone and without; a lovers heart is mummified
he will never love another as much
the “ghost orchid” has become her epithet
the rules of this game have changed, misère ouverte.
I chose Bonnie Raitt “I can't make you love me” because when I listened to it it brought
back memories of my childhood feeling second to my fathers work. His physical presence was
always their, but his heart belonged to his work and still is. After listening to the song 5 or 6
times I thought of the question, what makes the heart feel for something that it can't
touch----like love, and went from there.
We buried her in that grave in the ground;
it was her final, resting place--poor Mom!
Shaken, I wept but my siblings were calm;
only I appeared distraught and unsound,
overwhelmed at the sudden loss I found
too great to bear; it was like a huge bomb
had exploded in our lives,--like napalm!
There I sat...my grieving tears were profound;
it had been an upsetting funeral:
we buried her on a cold, wintry morn...
all there knew their places on arrival;
among them I wept, so tearful and torn
during the service and the burial.
In the end, I felt so dead and stillborn...
I never summoned sadness to my cause
And yet it fell full to me, neverending
A darkness envelop the soul, to pause
To leave despair, a depth I'm descending
When did time become a realm so cold?
As beauty faded away in silence
When love was shaken, the heart foretold
Loneliness will appear in love's absence
Grief flows fluid, while in quiet repose
To fill the emptiness, when love has died
Reflections fleeting, do not but expose
A need for a flickering light, to guide
Summoned by sadness, with no knowledge of
To feel a heart grow cold, without love
Where is the nation which speaks love ,
where are the spirits which kept us above ,
where can we find the solution for grime ,
like a tiny mosquito committing a crime ,
where the air around lives in a coal miners lung - ,
serving all mankind , till the singers sung ,
darkness our future – remains in our fate ,
hard striking sweats – prove together very late .
Love is far found under the graves ,
humanity is flown in the melodious waves ,
lacking all words – but we act very brave .
Sum up the words – saving bloody lives ,
bawl , cheer , and glamour – forging against the knives ,
clutch on the oldie – seeking truth till you dive .
Fly away little bird.
Winter winds are churning.
Alas, the cold has been delivered
Replacing summer’s burning.
Fly away my feathered friend
The river bank’s receding.
My true love left me days ago
And now my heart is bleeding.
The warm days, the sunny rays
Was the time of our love’s season.
You’ve turned your back and walked away
Without a breath of heart-felt reason.
If you ever find me waiting,
On the shore at evenings nigh.
Keep your path below your feet
As I pray when you go by.
Fly away, heart of mine
Loves season passed the starry night.
Winters spirit has cast a spell
So spread your wings as you take flight.
Carrie Emily Beck
The bottomless pit of time, days long past,
memories like tangled vines of a jungle,
rampant foliage, leafy ferns to grasp.
Rotting, flowering parasites struggle,
for life, like an unfinished masterpiece,
I thrust grief into the misty tangle.
Grasping for something beautiful, for peace,
in the inky shadows of yesterday
I dance with sorrow, crying for release.
Within this maze, this labyrinth, I pray,
mourning for yesterdays I cannot change,
I twirl, swirl, waltzing amongst trees, I sway.
I tremble in soundless silence of dreams,
only waking, do I hear my own screams.
July 9, 2013
For the contest, Terza Rima Sonnet
Black tulips adorn her favourite vase
At this dinner table set up for one.
Her face distorted as if hit by mace
As she displays the medals he had won.
A clowder of black cats wail on the wall,
Emulating Chopin’s funeral march.
His parents just lie there and their eyes bawl
At the cenotaphs under the tall larch.
The thunderclaps join in the gun salute
For treasured sons returned in body sacks.
These are cold facts that one cannot refute
Unless on haunting stats we turn our backs.
With their memories embossed on a plaque
Those stars and stripes are all now painted black.
Contest: I love rock and roll
Sponsor: Kelly Deschler
Upon hearing of Peter Kassig’s beheading
Paint it Black
The Rolling Stones are touring Sydney
simmering deep inside
hidden most of the time
or rising like the tide
when hitting the inner chime
the mourning state alive
memories sweeten the sorrow
eternal love the hugest drive
on the way to another tomorrow
tears and laughter battling for attention
heart and soul going along
a whole new dimension
of love growing so strong
a never-lost loss is a gift
the residu of life's sift
© Ellie Daphne
Tender smile fumes, the vanished touch of yore
Against midnight scream, passion in folklore
Tether thy gaily words. Not a tear loss
Arise ye heads, looked thence before at toss.
Silence posit as means for foe deceit.
Norm thath mandate knees ‘till poseur forfeit;
Smash across bloody, unknown one gallant
Niggle on trust which n’vr malevolent.
Flee and austere, meek wolves escape shameless,
Fight outside pride, hope tributes when helpless.
Oh! Might destroy peace nurtured humble eye;
Obscure fate hung after teary goodbye.
Untold misery haunts. Short lived supper
Unfold all plots. We died unseen pauper.
The morning air turned silver, from the mist
The trees stood quiet, holding up the sky
This calming serenity unclenched my fist
As I came to this forest, wanting to die
Collected dreams still haunt me, from the war
The eyes of those I held, crying aloud
The cold of their skin stays forevermore
While I wear survival's guilt, a dark shroud
Today, came to invite death, free the pain
but, this forest grabbed me, with a wolf's call
And chilled my spirit, what little remained
To release demons, that made my soul crawl
A voice soft I heard, to say it's alright
Leave this place, you can now welcome the night
Dedicated to Robert
Grief has many faces, many aspects of life’s demeanor displayed.
Real grief swells the soul, buries the mind, and stones the heart.
I have both seen and felt, especially when death plays a part.
Everyone has felt grief in life, felt overwhelmingly dismayed.
Feelings are real and take control of everything to be remade.
Reactions are what persons do right from your heartaches start.
Even if compassion is the first thing painted in teary art.
Anguish shared together, sorrow between two; do aid.
Completion of misfortunes with shared guidance with all.
Taking their mind from undercover, slowly rising it up,
Invoking the soul to heal, crumbling heartfelt stones.
Only time will heal, whatever action caused the fall.
No one can predict or project the time of peaceful cup.
I look at her picture ... she'll never grow old.
A feathered headband on her small, downy head.
The pain will lessen, that's what we've been told
but we've so few memories of a babe , now dead.
Scarlett of name, a moniker bold,
for such a wee thing, fragile and young.
She won't grow into the name, will never grow old.
Won't learn to walk or talk or ever have fun.
I look at her picture, tears brimming my eyes.
She sleeps so peacefully in repose.
They say time will heal but I believe it's all lies.
The grief that we feel, no one really knows.
Her unbearable beauty left scars on our hearts.
On the day God reclaimed her ... we all fell apart.
You took my word,
Turned it around,
Threw it on the ground,
And silence was heard.
Now there is no sound.
Not even from a bird.
And it never occurred,
It could be lost or found.
I have nothing more to say,
Nothing I want to do,
Not even have a good day,
Not even I love you.
I have nothing to say anymore,
Not even one word from before.
O God, the pangs are crushing body, soul
And spirit—working deaths where sunlight fades—
My arms are trunks of pain and taking toll,
While tortures, stings, and sickness hauntly raids
To close the Gates of Hell to shut me in,
And heaven bows to greet while Hades seeks
To send The Reaper with his failing grin.
And illness ruins lives while havoc wreaks
The squalored throes of daily living on—
While body wastes away and breath remains
To sing your dirge while I still carry on…
Like trampling cattle trodding broken frame,
I live between the sunshine and the grave—
Like flowers cut and dying in the vase
the coin is golden,
the coin is rich
the coin is plentiful
the coin's a bi+ch*
the coin will entice you
the master will command you
the quiet roar will lull you
while golden coin covers over you
let it be a warning my son
a dire warning from grieving fathers
don't stand upon that golden coin
and drown in it like your brothers
no one ever wishes to behold a man's face
who lost his sweet boy to the golden coin's embrace
© Goode Guy 2013-03-28
*apparently there's a difference of what constitutes a curse word.
can this be the room where the Ripper was?
Jack the Ripper killed a number of girls
killing ladies of the night without cause
and he gave Scotland Yard greatest more curls
his identity still remains unknown
maybe jack the Ripper wasn’t a man
the name Jack the Ripper is so well known
this room on Osborn Street home to a man
even though his identity not known
a nearby foot print seemed like a huge man
the real Jack the Ripper may not be known
his identity mystery to man
but maybe that room has all the answers
once it is studied by examiners
(continueing the Monsieur L'Vampyre adventure)
THE DEATH OF MADAMOISELLE duPONT
Dear Stella, up the path, into the park,
deep shadows hide the trees along the Seine,
the quiet of the night accents the dark
and you can feel your breathing now and then.
The peaceful gloom, enveloped by a mist,
all black and gray and shades of morbid white,
accentuates the place your eyes have missed,
where someone waits, who's watched you every night.
This place, where gendarmes warn to be aware,
tonight is more foreboding than you've known,
and so you pause; you look; is someone there?
it's then you realize, you are alone.
The snapping of your heels you hear increase,
as if the hurry puts your mind at peace.
Engulfed, the path leads up and from the Seine,
and then you'll be out of this narrow pit,
but suddenly you feel the eyes again,
much closer than a glove too small to fit.
You struggle with your thinking, in a word,
to flee or just pretend no one is there,
and so you hum a tune you've never heard,
and place your safety in your mother's prayer.
Oh, Stella, Stella, in the spring you'll wed,
your sweet Gaston. Believe he's at your side,
and you will laugh at all this gloom and dread...
though courage might have found you, it has lied.
The shadows all are moving; you can hear
the groaning of someone who's all too near.
The quiet; crickets sounding no alarm,
but now a drizzle rain cools at your heat,
and tingles flowing down onto your arm
remind you of the friends you'll never meet;
quite suddenly, he's grabbed you from behind,
and muffles any sound you might have found,
you cannot scream, to hurt is in your mind,
but he's too quick, he's pinned you to the ground.
Who is this thing, your lover or your friend,
you might have pained...why does he want you dead?
or is this just someone who brings the end,
you've never known, with killing in his head?
You feel no teardrops, feel no blood nor fright,
there's only blinding, blinding, blinding light....
© ron Wilson aka Veebdosa the Doylestown poet
With screams echoing through these halls,
Smoke begins to rise.
Retuning to these murder filled walls,
It's the past I have learnt to despise.
Lights flashing red, blue, and white.
Sitting up against the door,
We've held up one hell of a fight.
A knock on the door.
"You'll deal with my son first!"
They pulled my beaten brother by the wrist,
As they cursed,
Ignoring my bleeding mother.
Scared and traumatized,
We have survived.
leaving at last one by one their final plane
not yet having back their own name
on Netherland's caring and respectful shoulders
brought a bit closer by soul stirring soldiers
forty(*) shiny black hearses crawl at a footpace
lining up on a for the occasion reserved airbase
driving on cleared Dutch highways and roads
forty unidentified victims their heaviest loads
finally heading home after such horrible days
nation's crowds gather along endless highways
showing and sharing silent grief and paying respect
after that deadly sky high rocket impact
the Dutch population is applauding with heartwarming faces
whilst strongest most impressive comforting tranquility embraces
(c) Elly Wouterse
(*)This morning (07/24/2014) announced that today's convoy will be twice
as long - 74 hearses will be on the - for them - cleared highways and roads
.... and tomorrow... another motorcade of at least 70..............
Valentines Wishes On Dresden
Awakened before sleep had settled in
she peered out to the night of Dresden's way
and though her hero had no war to win
she blew a kiss to him, as if to say
"mein Fuhrer, this, your Fraulein dreams of you
and vishes you could feel this love of mine
I've done most everything a girl could do
but foolish, hope to be your valentine."
And then the bombs fell from a troubled sky
as if mere kisses from the Butcher's lips
before she'd even ask her Heaven why
her world was blown apart by groaning ships;
the understanding of it all is rare
in part because the world just doesn't care.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
A thousand years of lies has been given.
Living a lie of truth and of no sight.
For this time we have been liven.
Oh my do we keep flying this kite!
They gave a word to misuse.
Everyone was a lamb or snake.
Oh how did they use it to abuse!
Failure to follow was a cause to be in a bake.
Woe to the saints!
The people with minds of knowledge fell.
For us so many gave faints.
Can you hear the cry of their bell?
Why did only a few stand up to give it a question?
Oh why was only a few courageous to give it a mention?
The Door of Solitude
It was the door I remember most it had been
optimistic green once but now dripped of rots
only tears can produce. Like walking into a portal
you know if the door opens you pace into
dejection and be enveloped by the dismay of
people who hated one another but cut not
unknot a union bound by threads of misery.
The yard was full of car parts that never would
be assembled and batteries oozing sadness
no jump lead would bring back to life.
The door didn’t open a bit of relief, like when
a stalled car on a dark road suddenly starts.
I did see a flutter on a dirty curtain but knew
it was too late to help my brother back to sanity.
Rest gently now my love and do not fear,
The harsh cold winds of winter or the snow.
That falls about these parts this time of year,
But think now of the spring and what will grow.
Remember too the gentle summer rains,
That cools the earth and makes the heathers bloom.
Or autumn hues that blaze across the plains,
To raise our hearts and wash away the gloom.
And do not think that you will be alone,
To face the bleakest days and endless nights.
For you and I will face them on our own,
To hold on fast and set all things to rights.
For though the tide of life holds us apart,
My love will keep you safe within my heart.
To be innocent is to be entirely unknown, even to oneself.
- Djuna Barnes
I am free at last to be silent, to lap
In the quiet of your promise of promise
Like the pear tree in the garden which feels
But does not ask, why such beauty here?
On rainy monsoon days locked in
Wanting to explore the sea and the galaxy,
The tree beseechingly asking the rain,
That I may not be gauged from your gaze,
To be by one companion remembered,
Name scratched out on the asylum walls.
As I was cancelling out ideals
I saw in the forest the tumult of life.
The remorse of a nymph once a virgin,
The stars were there, but of accidental origin.
from IN MEMORY OF HER
Go look up the original sonnet called An Uplifting Sonnet. This one's called The Uplifting Sonnet because of the fact that it's actually much more Shakespearean and it flows better strangely. Rock on and pen on, all! I hope this verse is thrilling. P-soup me if you appreciated this fancy sonnet or just comment or whatever floats your demented boat!
~Written by Davey_Wavey_Rox37 =) It's not my real pen name, but whateverz
Mineth ear hath heard thee charming music,
Thy splend'r sounds formeth steady accord;
Tunes blend compliantly—therapeutic!
And this tune—it stabs me with a sharp sword
F'r through singer, thou wilt findeth talent
To findeth thy fantasy 'ere it dries
Squeal with joy—just liketh new born infant!
That hath his gift of uplifting thine eyes
Heareth what sounds turns crowd's woe to cheereth
Mine ears hast heard thy voice—is it songbirds?
Are thou awaken'd by sounds of feareth?
The desires I hath reap'd entic'd herds!
Ears grasp its wanteth to releaseth grace,
Draws attention to what they hear—embrace!
A sudden thrust: the scraping sound of steel
Against the bone, careering from the blow
His balance lost, staggering as he kneels
Upon the earth, he tries to staunch the flow.
The bloodied sword now dropping to the ground,
His battle rage now slowly dissipates.
They seek each others eyes but make no sound,
Just silence at the sadness of their fate
Three days they fought, no quarter given still,
Three nights they met to clean each others wounds,
Today they knew that one of they would kill,
And in that killing both of them be ruined.
Watching his brother slowly slip away,
He cursed the games of kings that made them play.
In the valley of souls flows a river
of sorrows—a river of great despair.
It's a spiritual death that we all share,—
which napalms our lives and eats our liver.
Beware! Its undercurrent of wet doom
drowns us with heartless glee—it does not care,
and burdens us with more than we can bear.
We're like occupants in a cold, stone tomb
for whom can be heard and felt the death knell
where heaven's desolate and God is dead,
as if we are a breath away from hell.
Here, where cautious souls dare not walk or tread,
we are like phantoms—like ghosts in a shell.
Yet, we fear not hell: but Despair we dread!
The years moved on, and, older now, betwixt
fresh birth and the faded embers of age,
I grew wistful for a second matrix
to restore life and a youthful image.
A wasted youth gone in too brief an hour
(regrets--regrets--so much melancholy!):
that I neither lived nor loved in power
so anguished me--what great, utter folly!
All that remained was joy in the setting sun
that by turns will reveal a rising one's birth:
life never lived or a soul loved by none
by Providence shall have known bliss and mirth.
So, beloved, extend me not your pity:--
for my joy rests in God's eternity.
--Ngoc M. Nguyen, 21 December 2014
Wakes are supposed to be a tradition where friends and family pay their respects to the
deceased. On this point, I do not disagree. However, I find certain aspects of this custom
unnecessary and unnerving.
Just the atmosphere alone is depressing: The unnatural smell of flowers that ordinarily in
nature have their own unique, pleasing fragrances are now combined in a cold parlor
emanating a macabre odor. Again, this is tolerable. What I object to is the eulogist using
this sad occasion to further the grief of the mourners that are already on overload. This
I think is unnecessary, to say the least, and serves no humane purpose. I consider this an
infringement as in the case of the priest in the following poem.
The casket sits alone amid the blooms.
The mingled scents emit abnormal stench.
A sickly perfume permeates the room.
A somber, crying queue awaits; all drenched
In tears. A priest is standing tall beside
The bier. He motions us to be seated.
The eulogy commences. Quiet cries
Commingled words of praise repeated,
Unduly interrupted further speech.
Alas! His deed is done. He overwhelms
Us. Grief imbues our thoughts. It seemed to reach
My inner sanctum; He trespassed this realm
This morn. Unhallowed ground I do believe.
I stood a moment, turned, and took my leave.