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 will complain and lift 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 merciless is the pain that's left,
to seek out Love is to turn away from safety
and to coax the wicked arrow to your 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 lie, a myth, a thoughtless jest.

If there be a God in Heaven or a Devil down below, there must be salvation too, I think,
though to benefit from Gods living water
one must first kneel to take a drink.

And if you're wise, my friend, you'll bow
your head and fall upon your knees
and say a prayer to God above

before you rise to leave.








© W.G. Myers