Love Becomes A Memory

What does it matter if we worship
God or the Devil
as long as we have peace?

But why is peace only
too many people possessing
too few words desiring
too many changes within
too few inspired moments?

Time swirls the leathery sky,
pinning all under its boot,

while thoughts of everything
and thoughts of nothing pass,
each of their own importance
and blatant insignificance
ferrying crude emotion away.

Away, love becomes a memory
forgotten at the first sign of loss,

observing the wrinkled face
with a life undesired,
a life so coarse and brittle,
dying every day
without end.

Not frightened by nightmares
for waking hours haunt ever more,

as dreams are of sleep, of darkness
cradling in its infinite arms
a slipping into the ether,
laying down hope,
giving up despair.

An endless cycle of
waiting for the day when
my soul sells me.

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