Between Death and Longing lay the chasm
that devours every good intention and every
syllable uttered in the throes of night,
every caress, every sigh every whisper of delight

and when comes the wind to sweep it all away the raven calls and lifts his ragged wings to stir the dust and raise the ashes and disturb

the brittle leaves.

Lo, how horribly fleeting is the joy of Love
and how crippling is the agony that's left,
to seek out Love is to turn away from safety
and to coax the wicked arrow to your waiting breast.

How like a thought it's swift, sharp flight,
how cruel it drives its point into my flesh,
Love reveals itself for what it truly is: A baldface lie,

a thoughtless jest.

If there be a God in Heaven or a Devil down below, there must be salvation too, I think,
though to slake your thirst with Gods living water one must first stop and kneel to take a drink.

And if you're wise, my friend, you'll bow
your sinful head while you are down there on your knees and take the time to say a prayer

before you take your leave.





© W.G. Myers