AtLast_[07]

So seemed as dreamt by me to be. Misplaced of faces left behind I conjure traces drawn of mind Mindful of the then of when I was free And free of sin. I was of her. And who was she? Aye. The ghost in his pain The pause in his gaze The vacant air Through which he stared, Every lyric choked unspoken, Phrases that stoked him, Stroked him And cloaked him in grace Hers To Hymns To me Displaced I,

Her only trace. In my reflection, His dejection, Badly

Sadly fashioned face, Of distracting strain,

Tuned of parturition wounds Exacting retrospection's pain. It is always there A Rising Reaching Flame. It was always there That