While winds lay waste to brick and tile
I march along, and all the while,
I hold no time for thoughts of loss.
For weeping shoes, or bitter guile.
Each memory I come across,
clings to my mind like fine grown moss.
I hesitate but shall not halt.
I hold this threat, to bear my cross.
In agony, but through no fault
of God. Or nature. Or assault,
which seeks to calm my peaceful eyes,
or keep my love locked in a vault
of past, present. The future lies
within reach. Though my mind denies
that what I Iost can't be replaced...
I will not stop, and I shall rise
into a cloud where thoughts misplaced,
can be explored, or fully traced
back to that time, where in the past
I held those things which death disgraced.
©spilvenr
S