Those twisted words they fit not in your mouth
(those lips which I have kissed a thousand times).
It matters not if winds blow from the south —
when ladyes lie then nothing truly rhymes.
I held your hand and led you through the dark
and showed you vista visions wildly real.
We touched a vast divine and piercing spark
though something else that beauty did conceal.
For truth was trampled tritely in the dirt
as silver cords between us snapped in two.
I see its traces on my bloodstained shirt
and wonder what I’ll do with me and you.
I sit here in this strange grey morning light.
Could that, too, be, in truth, the dead of night?
© 2011, Alan Morrison