Dreams In The Parlor

the hanged man smiles and twists with creaking rope in a gentle breeze- lifeless orbs hold all he looks upon, but never sees... ...the lovers turn their heads away, afraid of his disease. there ravens gather, flesh torn for meager meals 'neath the careful watch of death, the wound that never heals but festers, waiting patiently in fields that hold eternity... upon some sacred hill where silent soldiers lay sword-slain and lifeless, the fool makes his way through thorns of regret to a gentler day... ...his face turned benignly toward the pale sun that casts its soft blanket o'er everyone... ...where the tower stands vigilant and withdrawn, no soul dares tread, for before the cool dawn spirits will whisper of the wheel that keeps turning, as the moon holds her court, lost in permanent mourning... ...there are dreams in the parlor, pallid and left to decay- we may weep for their splendor, but they still fade away. Written October 3rd, 2001 © on Oct 03 2001 07:04 AM PST, jc mcgee   0 • 10