The hunt begins where silence
ends, in the active evening
light, where once there was
dreams to hold, and lovers
bliss.

The captive mind as wounds
too harsh to heal, in the light
of centuries, where only tears
fall in vain without a spoken
word.

Echos float among clouds
of white, lingering its cries
among the best, where only
children of today can rule
out each, one by one, without
the mark of innocence.

The hunt begins with prayers
not in vain, with tears falling
with each whisper of the night
when shadows are darken
deeper without question.

Dreams are still for dreamers
cutting out the mystic spells
that control a lovers heart
while only thoughts can make
the hunt end without destruction.



© Derena Bree (All rights reserved)