"O, what spirit this ....?
That taketh hold of my tendon’d wrist, arthritic hand
To maketh written prose, in shades borne black and white
The colours of my wretched soul’s, exquisite torment?
SO, is this doubt .... ?
So long without, joy long lost by none, but I, who sees
Labours by which, fruit-bearing toils, and nectar flow in bounty
Though choose to run, through fingered hourglass, into life’s dry creek bed?
THOU, you asketh I .... !
“Share not the wealth of sorrow unto the fold, and let shame unto the river
But taketh solace in the winter of your madness, and folly
Fore change ever blows its wind, upon the desert shores of love!”
ALIVE, she cries .... !
As wind, the very winds of Hell rush through her fair, glowing curls
She pleads to the sky, “God’s forsaken I, and those whom I love!”
A feast of friends, moonlit skies and ancient spirits hear her wail!
ALAS, be told .... !
Here now unfold, these truths of strength and struggle
Against Hell’s wrath, its wind and furnace, we face our treacherous ‘morrow
It will be with, our head’s held high, without self-serving sorrow!"
~ words and image by Lew Campbell (c) 2012