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The Quicksand of Thought
Like sands of thought, a whirlpool's dizzy spins
and holes of black, where not a prayer escapes,
the gravity ~ temptation's lurid sins,
while empty vacuums fill and chaste guilt drapes.
While strung...there draws a bow that sheds a tear
on sweet vibrato's last remembered breath,
now echoes in the breast that held you near
and haunting dreams that can't accept your death.
Such blame...the trembling mirror held,
not far enough to see reflected truths,
yet close enough to feel the growing swells,
remembering the hopes when we were youths.
I languish in the quicksand of my thoughts,
where every lingering memory was wrought...
Copyright ©
Craig Cornish
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