THE WANDERS

THE WANDERS
Copyright 2013 Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved.

What chill this feeling alone came?
A ghostly touch to prick the skin!
On an evening birthed by morning’s flare
On a sunrise breaking hard
Was then lost to itself
Lost to itself over distant hills
Where waves crashed upon a shore and
Through an abandonment of memories trees
Whose bodies like skeletons stand and stood
With dry branches, leafless, rooted-wood
Their gnarled and thirsty feet
Dug deep into the soil and
A patch of rock t’was thereby soon met
There they silent, rigid stand and sightless stare
The hoary wooded field
Asleep upon the land
In a private wooded stand
Beneath an evening birthed by morning’s flare
On a sunrise breaking hard
And I, feeling so much as being lame
Could not contain the wanders’ thought
A wish that time could standstill upon a dare
And pull me back to a place I wished for sought
Where I ought to have never left
One wrought with the stain of blood
On hands thought too young to past the test
Or to be blest in some manner sought, and yet
The wanders through my mind
Are best left there in silent design
For to know what or where they lead
Or in past times could have ever led
Can leave me empty and not inline
With others wishes that I have come to find
Upon my life and liberty they do feed
And the chill has found a place of need
This chill feeling that alone nameless came
On an evening birthed in morning’s flare
On a sunrise breaking hard
And there the wanders can and could wander fair
In sight of a sleeping, weeping, ancient wood.

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