Fading Mist
By verge of dusk, where clear perceptions wane
and clouds of sallow recollections dwell,
hang viral vines where memories remain
that drift about this dense primeval veil.
My wounded soul lies swaddled in these folds
of images dismantled in a wake
of fading mist and all that it beholds
for of her touch no longer I partake.
Her graven lot had taken to the mend
as prayer in whisper pled to the Divine,
this twisting hope held tethered to the wind
but death blew through and broke the fragile vine.
Through muddled eyes illusions now pervade
where once the dreams of dancing lovers swayed.
12-22-2022
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2022
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