Back to the Old Haunt.

Let spirits sacrifice themselves at once,

Fresh ghosts delay the making of a dunce.

Hist’ry’s silhouettes bow into the dark

as tombstones crumble ‘fore love’s solemn mark.

~

What love is deep as wells in which death dwells?

Bodies of the slain piled on clouds above

paint out seven portraits for seven hells –

each one more lacking in art than in love.

~

Before the clock has finished its ticking,

may we stop and stare fast into the ground.

Who knows what rising tides come trickling

when tears of the hope-lost turned joyous found?

~

Sound a cry! The fury calls before the dawn;

its age-old custom torn away.

When forced silence reigns in a beating heart’s song

and there are left no more words to say.

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