and it has ever been so,
if anyone tells you no
they are a liar.
All our plans and wishes
are paper balls thrown in the blaze,
I can see tomorrow behind the smoky haze
burn brilliant bright before bursting into ashes.
The fiction of innocence
is suspended. Our lost faith
describes the truth
of a life without consequence.
Is the end of days this sad?
Like being alone forever
in perpetual fever
for the love you never had:
the wind blows your hair in a cloud around your face,
a wild web crocheted cloth of thread
softly dances about your head
while your eyes peek through the lace.
Ben Gage
