The shadow of the former self is out there now forever seeking. The sitter seated accused amused is forever longing for pastures fleeting. Through pain and torment to save your soul, a spoken law is a hidden roll. The blood that speaks, two hearts that whisper; a golden crown for night’s own sister. All masks removed, all races run for now is the echo of a passing sun. It was never who we truly were but, who could listen and break the mold. And although that orb still shines all day, still the hazel moon catches its final ray.
Dedicated to my friend ‘Sextus The Pythagorean’
Copyright ©Martin Hanley: June 21st 2014