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Poem

Twenty years running,
brushing past the dust of the road;
ode to the dreams weighted by the gazes of doubt
around her song dancing.

No one spoke of his name,
he hovered the streets like morning fog;
ode to what he stood for to make the mess
around his world cursing.

Secrets marched softly in a row,
marched ever so softly in tow.
She said love would burn her, spitting the ashes back home in a beggar's hand.

Church bells once were ringing, 
dangling through the gust of wind; 
ode to her happiness weaker than the bitter hereafter
around her soul dancing.

No one told of his tale,
he haunted her thoughts whenever it rained;
ode to her strength that wasn't enough
around her life draining.

Secrets marched softly in a row,
down by the river slowly in tow.
She always swore love would burn her, and leave her dead cold.

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