Pathways, made with swollen stones,
by Michael Walkerjohn
upon lays light so lost;
narrow, dark, and dreary,
thorned roses, edge walk's walls;
bleak, are lonely roads so trode,
rough is footings cross;
wails in anguish, one's soul mourns,
stumbled in love's squall.
Not graced by reflections,
thoughts of love, impends demise;
trek, of each in it unspoken,
hearts soon in it, chastised;
all around, worn battles torn,
one's life peace, brutalized;
maddening curse, in loving's thirsts,
soul's purity, is bastardised.
Dark, lonesome halls,
within each soul, murky mind's surmise;
forgotten starts, fast sparks in hearts,
sadness arrow flies;
torn flesh, wrought by flying hurts,
truth's mind despised;
pain and torment, life beholds,
a sparrow's breast incised.
Welling eyes, shed years of tears,
on these pathways yearning;
in denial, all pains so flay,
sweetness, in one's soul burning;
piths of love, asoak in blood,
lost forever, each souls churning;
face to skies, sheer tears cry,
hearts seek bonds adhering.
Pure light seeks, the mated streak,
in any love's suited themes;
waiting, that perfect match,
till now, available only in dreams;
hearts woo hearts,
forgetful, of life's broken, empty streams;
still minds fall, to such depths,
hope is, in pure love's ends.