The whispers of a wind are coming through;
With smells of times which bear a diff'rent hue
A term fulfilled and thus it shall again;
Indeed; for time will show us where and when.

O' would that words as these were more in truth;
Than bitter kisses from a lying youth.
I wonder at these hints of remedies;
What worth can be derived from fallacies?

Can hope so false become the saving wine;
For those who blindly grasp at life's red line?
Oh my, this job does tend to make me brood;
To think such ghastly thoughts no human should;

A frightened child who rules divinity
And clasps the reins of true infinity.
I guess it's time to taste the irony;
These winds are signs of my insanity.




Poetry by Thomas Selnes
Read 1081 times
Written on 2006-10-24 at 16:42

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