rewrite

They Are The Lost

they are the lost
who revel in the dead gods
and will deny
all but the stories
that validate old lies

they are the lost
who live in yesterdays
of fetish to bronze
and stone and the scorched earth
of glorious pasts

they are the lost
unable to find a place
within the run of time
which has passed them by
and left them lost

Dead Morning

and of this morning none can say
what night monsters passed this way
to leave their tracks in frozen breath
harbingers of cruelest death
to those who once knew mothers care
a fire, a hearth, an easy chair
now severed from the wider hold
discarded, to the winter’s cold
but of this dead morning one can say
we all of us had parts to play.

Lost Seasons

what sweet seasons these were in my youth
that sparked all promised dawns under the sun
and held no cynicism above the truths
which spring denies until the winter comes
for all the cold days held in my marked years
have withered absolutes as does the frost
in killing roses with the dew’s first tears
until the blooms of our beliefs are lost.