by Martin Hanley
Copyright © Martin Hanley 1/29/2014
There is meaningless in knowing where the red thorn has wounded you, As idle performers cast echoes of what once you only knew. And the silver keeps on turning, reflected moon she answers too, While cold morning now is breaking, hollow explanations begin ringing true.
Yet the sea still washes over, past your key a hidden clue. Your term is a short one coming, still you wait for something new, The keening wind performs its duty, stripping the worn providing the new. And in time this light will soften for a better day to come shinning through.