by John Holowach
Wild flights of fancy make way to suborned,
Heated nights of passion.
Swilling maws of thankless lovers
Sweetly kissing the brow of everlasting end.
But hot summer evenings
Lend to cold winter nights,
The sun-dapped life had ended so soon.
And the lives lost now ply at the darkness,
Swept into ash by wind and fire,
Running down rivers of rotting time.
Or do they see what is approaching,
And accept it?
Into the ground.