I have disfigured myself
	With the acid
	Of disbelief.
	I maimed my mind
	Through battering doubt.
	The tendrils
	Of my affections
	Have shriveled and died,
	Because I
	Did not lave them
	With my spirit's waters.
	My thoughts are dust,
	Arid and swept away
	By winds of reason,
	To leave
	Only empty corridors
	Where once grew
	Gardens of splendid love.
	A fog of skepticism
	Obscures the sun
	Of intuition and imagination.
	Snows of icy reason
	Freeze romantic pools
	In which
	Were once reflected
	All the delicate
	Beauty and love
	The world could know.
	How long
	Shall this parched
	And empty scene endure?
	When will come again
	The gentle rains
	Of enternal inward spring
	To nourish and reseed
	The desert
	Within my aching brain?
	Can there be rebirth?
	Or shall dessication
	Reign for eternity on end,
	Until my shriveled corpse
	Lies thin as dust
	Upon heaven's windowsill?
	No one seems to answer
	As I sit
	Upon this harsh and fearful crag,
	Looking down and back
	Upon the rich, verdant vales
	I left behind.
	If some goddess
	Of tenderness and love there be,
	Then Sweetest One,
	Come touch, replenish me.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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