If I

If I... If I, upon waking, remember you not... If the torrents of lost love grow cold where once hot And ooze from this ebbing flow of life... Trickling...trickling...trickling into the night Where wanton souls are forgot: Where will I be? And, what is my lot? Abandoned as unpicked fruit left to rot On a spiraling trellis---the ravenous in sight--- Hammering...hammering...hammering in thrustful plight I aimlessly wander the same spot. ©deborah burch 2005