You did not think I knew you were untrue,
Well crafted were the lines of your deceit
And yet in trusting mind suspicion grew
As every day odd stories I would greet.
You did not hold me when I drew you near,
Your eyes looked through me with a distant light,
Each whispered kindness I did there endear
Now greeted with the chill of winter’s night.
What does one do when love’s great fire burns out,
Hearth stones bleed warmth ‘neath ashes cold and grey;
There all sweet life consumed disposed in doubt
And embered ghosts of dreams on cinders lay.
Truth is the fuel the flames of love live on,
What feeds the coals of hope when tinder’s gone?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.