It hurts,
This betrayal of pristine dreams,
And the endless unspoken whispers
That grave age and tested wisdom
Have whistled into the wind;
A heart true to betrayal,
Smarting like pepper
In a freshly wound.
* * * *
And counting,
Just counting on languid fingers
Endless times of grief
With graying whispers
From dear matrons grown morbid
With packed anger.
You are like a dream hatched
One season too late
Before the Harvest.
Kwame atta Pappoe
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anima-christi/
