Tuesday, April 9, 2013

The lines

In that pit of no-man’s land
he lay as one unconscious of
the hand of love that gentle traced
the lines of bad experiences.

They twisted this way/that
and went beneath the surface of
the certainly most transitory
to disappear and be absorbed
by the real and permanent.

And yet she sought to draw them out
and lay them end to end
so they could shrivel up and die
before the last goodbye.

But the hand of love stopped midway;
only one who lies in that dark pit
can delve and ferret deep, deep, down
for all the lines not suited to
the one beneath the flesh.

So the hand of love off to the side
merely waits with downcast eyes
and one could say she’s praying
and wishing, hoping, needing,
to see before her one fine day
the clean and clear countenance
of one who knew in good time
to make a bonfire of those lines!