Ghosts of Yalta

GHOSTS OF YALTA From the dark of the light in the heat of the night do they know they are bridled to ride by the four who have known hope is there, but alone, in a time hope has no where to hide? It's been dying the death of a world out of breath from our going the distance too long, when alone is the lake of our biggest mistake, when the black of the sea is too strong. There is nothing we'll see That will change what will be, from the fleet given charge of the fall of the old and the new what it's now coming to, in the need for controlling it all. There is beauty around but there's nary a sound of the blessing from time growing old; not as Red as it was, but as harsh as its cause, and the pain of agreement gone cold. Now the Red of the sea is it--never should be? Does the Danube dry up from the West And just what will it make but another mistake from the meeting three minds in their quest? © ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet