My dark and brooding alter ego, LC, has stopped by to share a poem. He will do this from time to time...every month or so, knowing him. Maybe I will label it "Second Sundays with LC." Be forewarned: he is rather fond of iambic pentameter...and loathes the light of day.
The Desert, I
By Lemuel Crouse
The barren desert of my heart lies scorched
beneath a soulless sun. Now burnt, what love
grew there is dust, blown to and fro on winds,
once friends. By them I am now pushed away.
A famine dry and fierce once pierced my veins.
That drinker, dark and lusty in his thirst,
too deeply drank from teeming pools of life
and sucked away my future. I am dead
or dormant, which I may not learn ’til, ’wake,
I spring from sun-bleached bed or, dead, I rise
no more. If I but sleep, then why can I
not dream? If dead, can I not hope to be
reborn? I do not dream. I cannot hope.
Sous le soleil sans âme je suis, je reste...
(Photo courtesy David Shankbone via Wikimedia Commons)