Pale Blooms

Hot breath blows upon the waters of wasted years

Gathering at the mire of still life and stagnant yearn.

It turns over the silt in the blue delta bleeding brown

Memories and faded shadows of hopes;

Claiming safe haven along the channels

Through fields of thought, it taints

The meadows of dreams, and echoes, “Tumult!”

Among the new grasses the young feed.

Those small pale blooms, innocent,

Holding on a vine of deception sprung

From the roots that go down deep ….deep.

Deep into the caverns of darkness and drips

Of tears in stagnant waters of wasted years

And warmed, with a lost breath, alas,

Is a mire of still life our wellspring of fears.