THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

‘Tis evil ill to discover, perhaps, that the slightest memory that can e’er pass the gunwales of the mind from deep in some haunted place long forgot or caught in a whirlpool of time past the September of our lives can cause such pain in the reflection of the moment that others would most likely have forgot or came to disregard the event, and yet the pain lies there in the smoky mirrors of life and the bleeding out without a drop of blood that cannot be seen continues unabated