The Bereaved Lover

Bereaved

Bereaved, he dreamed beside the quiet creek

The gentle boy who loved, of love he missed,

Lamenting still, alone, and yet to speak.

 

Her form appeared upon the waters, meek,

And as it to be fantasy he wist,

Bereaved, he dreamed beside the quiet creek.

 

Surveying her placid eyes, with spirit weak,

While his grew lucid as he reminisced,

Lamenting still, alone, and yet to speak,

 

In such a state I saw him, with moistened cheek,

As he recalled when first her cheek he kissed,

Bereaved, he dreamed beside the quiet creek.

 

Then all of the soft and shaded heavens did seek

His visage to veil from view with sorrow’s bliss,

Lamenting still, alone, and yet to speak.

 

At this he thought his lot to be less bleak

If rain would weep with him, his sorrows list—

Bereaved, he dreamed beside the quiet creek,

Lamenting still alone, and yet to speak.

The Bones of Artists

The bones of artists often burn in Hell,

All mortal formed aesthetic does soon fade,

For only Love will live forever well.

 

The modern maker’s locked inside a cell;

His selfishness and emptiness has made,

The bones of artists often burn in Hell.

 

But beauty as it was before it fell

Once held us all as one together bade,

And only Love would live forever well.

 

Now selfishness has killed the loving will

And left us burning in a fiery lake

Like bones of artists: often burning in Hell.

 

Oh how my ear so longs to hear the bell

That rings eternal on the coming day

When only Love will live forever well.

 

That day will come of which no man may tell

When never more shall we hear the sorry tale

Of bones of artists that often burn in Hell

And only then will Love live ‘ever well.