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
Shared this feeling from time to time. The writing, the poetry, is perpetual fever. And its love you've got.
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