A glimmer resounding
Some essence, a foundling
A floating, a shimmer
From parts that are dimmer

The crest of a wave
Left whole, and yet pieced
A jest from a knave
Well paid, and yet fleeced
The soul, it does yearn
But the giver, deceased

Can we yet know
The depths deeply flowing?
The questions we sow
The tempests we’re growing?

The heart does cry out
Desperate of knowing
Yet weak and so venal
So dark, and yet glowing

The Dead Mind

© 2024 Bob Lee

With portents of mort
The sentence, primeval
To strive, but fall short
To live froward is evil

Are we yet there?
Merely echo and shadow
A dying, weak spark
Under stones
In death’s meadow

The mind, it’s precocious
It flitters and flops
Its pride is atrocious
All facade! All old props!

The presence we felt
Running round in our head
Cold, icy affection
Mere moldy reflection

From a memory
That’s dead!