Sorrow

"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