Revenge

That ghastly sound tunnels and burrows
A little man kneeling to his last words
while lying and drifting to his every breath
and buried in freshly fallen leaves - Myself
And that Lake before, enticing hands
leaving to sought and see rippling scores
of almost melodious harmony, leading calls
without speaking the secret images in
Every pause, I wait to see Myself
As my hands return, I take along his voice
and see myself slowly disppearing as
he stretches to take me back and live
As one and live as one beneath the
Lake or walking amongst the cracks
of this Land, will the angel stay on
Or guide his Way and be my memory's
frantic calling of the angel's song
I tremble or wait, to watch him leave
in peace and he, be happy lest be me

Or I to haunt this time
His every ways as still and
silent under the Lake
And left behind, was that paper of
words and words that finally last.

Copyright © 1996 The Light Island

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