"firemen" poems
School days in winter
Were such fun
Without a care,
When we were young.
At recess we'd slide
On ice,
Build our forts,
Duck and fight.
The firemen
Beneath starlight,
Would flood our schoolyard,
Whet appetites
For hockey games
Between senior classes;
We'd skate and shoot,
Fall on our *****
Such joy and fun,
And no one lost.
The bell would sound,
Then we'd toss
Our wet socks
On school room
Rads.
His and hers
Like banners waving,
Drying, hissing,
Choking, aging.
Impatiently we'd sit and wait,
Do our math
And conjugate;
The clock's hands,
Frozen,
Watched from
The wall,
At last the lunchtime
Bell would ring,
And we'd get bundled
Once again.
Before heading home
We're enticed
To slide once more
On hard, grey ice.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:01 PM UTC
People pass by me,
from all every direction
even in winter snow.
From exhausted firemen,
expectant mothers,
forgotten children,
marathon sprinters.
Even grumbling men carrying heavy, ancient computer printers.
Each have their share and take their turn on me, the local sheltered, secluded
seat.
Even if only for a deep breath and a break or a little body
heat.
Bags and books, all sorts of things have been dropped or left on me, proposals have even happened here, you
name it.
If you don't believe it, come see for yourself and
frame it.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
I lit a candle today
Thought about how the fire is enclosed and has to stay
How the days must be long
Having to stay small, not being able to grow strong
It must loathe me
It longs to be free
It's holding in all its emotion, it's turning blue
Then I blew
It screamed no, but the deed was done
Or was it?
They both finally get to grin
They leave nothing but destruction
But yet we still light the candle like it is our everyday instruction
Me and my family are gone
The ambulance arrives at the crack of dawn
As the firemen puts out the last sliver of fire
The candle knows it will be back, and it knows many will admire
Many will smell its aroma, and think it sweet
It doesn't want to please you, it wants to beat
The fire is its right hand man
The fire is its number one fan
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 6:52 PM UTC
Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.
The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.
The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.
The raging fires melted steel.
South Tower started to collapse
The Bravest in her stairwells
never heard recall perhaps.
“Sweet Jesus, Make this end now! ”
Some heard Father Mychal cry.
Debris from the South Tower
Like a scythe came flying by.
It was blunt force trauma to the head
laid Father Mychal low.
His friends removed his body,
before North tower , too, would go.
Thousands passed that terrible day;
the mighty and the small.
When responders came with body bags
Mychal was first of all.
Zero Zero Zero One
A strange number for a Priest,
who rushed in where many others fled,
May now he rest in Peace.
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 6:43 PM UTC
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
when i think of venice:
i think of the branzino al forno
we had at the restaurant;
where we giggled over the
young olive-skinned waiter.
i think of another afternoon:
we went to that wet market,
me in my only dress and you in your brand new sandals;
i had forgotten my film and
you had purchased one too many langostines
most of all when i remember venice:
i remember the firemen
racing down the canal
in their speedboats,
and on that day i asked you
if the canal was deep enough
for me to jump into
because that day
when i left the city,
the siren blaring behind us,
i wasn't thinking about anything
but the summer's day heat
and how:
there was no escaping it all.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
At the Firemen's Club
Dancing to the saxophone
Beer puts the fire out
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
the world today truly has become
the global village once predicted
by McLuhan 50 years ago
it took three decades longer
than he had thought
but now we have
all real time developments at our fingertips
Trump talks to Putin and Duterte & cetera
and we know about it
right afterward thanks to his tweets
that land on our mobile phones
suicide bombs exploding
in Damascus Baghdad Gamboru Kabul
hit us on our social media right away
so does the news about a bus
that fell into a gorge
all 65 passengers killed
somewhere on the globe
or of the cat caught in a sewer pipe
rescued by these brave firemen
little of all of that
adds to our understanding of the universe
or might be relevant to our lives
a bit more positive reporting is in order
at best served as sensational
as the bad news
that keeps us occupied
yet more important for our daily lives
than all this hype about
the danger and the devastation that
possibly
or not
may happen if
soandso does suchandsuch
at times I contemplate
if it is better to be out of touch
and not to care about the news
so very much
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
i.
a father doing sit-ups on the uncut lawn of his neighbor.
the father’s two children pushing a broken thing past him.
the shop the children map from the inside. its keeper
who is also the neighbor and knew their mother.
ii.
the grace of a thing could be a frog pushing off.
I am alternately sad in the legs, the body, and the head.
my father regards the misshapen wheel of our manmade
pond- bangs on himself and begins to float.
iii.
small one she wins a rubber thing at a firemen’s ball.
some flying creature her grandfather becomes.
his top teeth tremble like worried pilots in a silent plane
weighted with unknowable freight.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
Going home from visiting a friend
I have walking this same path
Walked this way, countless times
Up a slight hill of a lonely street
To a desolate alley in summer darkness
But I need to take a call of nature
So I start to relieve myself
To **** against a unyielding wall
And I am blind to those behind me
Two youths of eighteen or nineteen
I feel the liquid pouring down my leg
Then in seconds it is a ball of flame
My left leg, burning in pain, agony
I turn and they are running and laughing
Leaving me alone and I feel the skin burn
I kick the right shoe off my foot
And intend to take off these burning Jeans
But the foot is a ball of orange flame
The liquid had not travelling down the leg
It had gone into my shoe, burning from inside
I am shaking, in my shorts in night summer heat
I try kicking this fire out against the wall
The agony has taken my mind, insanity takes the pain
Unknowing, three toes snap as I continue to kick
But the fire burns on, with the smell of burning flesh
No one is there to help me, I only want to sleep
Concrete steps keep me from reaching safety
From this alley up to the waiting maisonettes
So I hold the rail, and force myself to climb up
And still the left leg burns and the pain returns in fury
I make it and there is someone in the kitchen
The first maisonette that stands on the corner
He sees me and he sees the flames that hurt me
He looks at me in horror, and then there is screaming
The screaming is coming from me, I can not stop
The man comes out with a bowl of water
He throws it over the burning foot and I pass out
I awake and there is a neighbour holding me
I see people all around me and I try to remember
The pain and memory come rushing back
Firemen are there now, hosing my leg with water
I hear a crackling and realise it is the leg
The screaming starts again, and it never stops
Coming deep inside of me, for this madness to end
And again darkness takes me as my mind shuts off
I am in an Ambulance, but I do not feel safe
They are out there and could still come for me
Why did they do this? What did I do?
I never even knew who they were
And the horror etches deep into my head
That was years ago, and I still carry the scars
The leg was saved, full thickness burn
Skin grafts rebuilt it, but it still breaks down
Three toes amputated, the big toe and ones next
Yes it still haunts me now and it always will
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 3:24 AM UTC
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary….
When books are replaced with Kindles and Nooks,
and content resides on the cloud.
It is relatively easy to delete certain works
at the whim of the haughty and proud.
If libraries falter, wither and die
The poor will lose access to the printed word.
Ten percent of the market will quickly dry up
and the price of a book gets absurd.
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.
The pleasure we had in turning each page
as our minds raced ahead to the end.
Short battery life never hindered our quest
when **** Jane and Spot were our friends.
A storm on the Sun bringing ionized rays
and digital files are undone.
and force us to search yellow crumbling pages
for rumors of Kipling and Donne.
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.
Was Bradbury right? Should we all memorize
the words born of our favorite pen?
Imagine reciting Shakespeare’s Hamlet by heart
so that silence won’t win in the end.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 7:49 AM UTC
returning from a night outbusting for a peedescretion of a grave yarddark cold cemetry bloddwyn used her pantiesmegan used a wreathto wipe away the dripperssighing with relief early sunday morningworried husbands chatmy bloddwyn had no pants on,my megans worse than that she had a card stuck up her bumand a white carnationsaying....always be remembered....from the firemen down the station
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 1:25 PM UTC
When the city lights are too bright
Does it leave any room for the sun to rise?
Feed your fields from the fluorescent lamp.
I sit at my desk,
do only as I’m told.
The teachers drone
And it would seem I have no future
Because I take interest in nothing
I don’t like to read and math is just too hard.
My mind moves too quick for my eyes, for my fingers to move across the lines of text,
but my lips and hands say anything and everything that needs to be said.
I don’t know that knowledge they preach
Pick up your pencils, read the prompt quickly but carefully, and you may begin.
Tell me of you future
What are your dreams
Dream big! The sky is the limit but remember the sky is only just above your head...
You may grow you may flourish, be all that you can be but know that you can only be you and you are not so big so tall so brilliant as those that walk above you.
I want to be a firemen, an astronaut, a police officer, and a cowboy.
She wants to be a nurse, a weather reporter, a vet, and a gold medalist.
But they say these are a fools dreams.
That I can only go as far as my legs will stretch and will never make it past the threshold of achievable,
and my hands can only hold onto what my fingers are long enough to wrap around.
There are shackles in that school.
They teach me that I can do anything and everything that my heart desires...
As long as I desire what they’ve placed in front of me.
Pay no mind to that other shade of green.
Follow suit, fall in line
Put your pencils down
Your time is up
Hand your papers to the person sitting in front of you and remain silent for the remainder of the class.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
A patch-work roof burns underneath
the sallow-white chill of a mid-winter moon.
Nearby a lake suffocates in ice;
an astronaut has lost his helmet.
Blood rushes to the eyes and tongue
as a ragged derelict loses his balance.
He topples into a dumpster;
the last pear drifts from the tree.
The firemen are enclosed in smoke.
One froze at the door,
the others melt into the haze;
a hand slips below quicksand.
The moon is doing all it can.
The spaceman is floating away.
The *** is asleep.
The roof is having the time of its life
and the pear grows into another pear-tree.
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
"my day will be different today"
she declares, when she sees herself hidden in
in a passing spending and breaking broken
drive-by scribbled-pretend, urgent poem,
stumbled upon by a heavenly calculated accident
gladdened, saddened. now dressed to the nines,
that piece of me, wherever it be, the parade ground,
where the words and letters assemble,
where the firemen train,
adding logs, love, accursed ego,
to the hearth,
steady on burning, to practice putting out the
ohms and uh-uh's
of electrical resistance that
your response, a shiny knife of a self-reflecting observation
has...ho ** **
sparkling stabbing mirror
this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting
but your simple complementation
fits inside quite nicely, for its simplicity,
because it is a
provocation stabbing piercing a self-questioning, of
why to write I need pen paper and ink,
and don't forget those stupid teardrops in the clear vial
the Zola j'accuse
of every poet, even the gone-ones,
looking down
at highest bar in poetry!
did I really do that?
even for a brief moment,
a nanosecond,
me words
modify the entire continental shelf
that another writer occupies,
change its axis, the rate of spin,
the angle of another's
solitary human's day
nah
all i did was read (all) her poetry, imaging imaginng
a life so foreign, putting me inside of thee, and
let my stubs, the remains of worn fingers do the rest
so I guess it could be true
what you wrote,
but about me
"my day will be different today"
and why I practice this
wonderfully ridiculous
craft,
cause the pay is so
**** good
10:36am
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 10:56 AM UTC
(3/9/12)
So many uniforms worn in this life, and inside them
You’ll find your loved ones -your soul mate
Son , daughter, husband , or wife.
Firemen , policemen , nurses , and military too
They all have a job to do.
And as you look at them with pride
You thank god they’re by your side.
The uniform does not make the person
But the person makes the uniform.
Because in it they pour the heart and soul
And it’s there where they belong.
The firemen and women who run into a burning house
The cop who goes into the line of fire
The nurse who held their hand on you to stop the bleeding
And of course the military soldier
Who protects our country day and night
And will give up their lives in a fight.
Yet we do not stop and say:
“Thank you for all that you do
I am very proud to know you.”
Their uniforms are just their shells
And at times they go thru hell.
But there is a person who never wore a uniform
But created all of them who wear it.
He is all these people rolled into one
He is “GODS SON”.
He made these uniforms so that we can see their worth
And it was given to them from their birth.
So many uniforms to show what we do
But it doesn’t show the inner you.
This uniform is seen only by god
It is called the human heart.
This uniform can not be replaced
by anything on this earth
For it was given by god at our birth.
We can be as beautiful or as vicious
As any animal on this earth, or as
Soft and sensitive as the most delicate flower
This is given to us from the lords powers.
Let us rejoice in what he has given
And make this life “ worth living”.
© L.Rams
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 1:01 PM UTC
sirens blare and shutters close,
we sit calmly in our humble abode
until we smell the smell I’ve smelled
a thousand times and going strong.
we joke and skip idly around the stairs
in a fashionably orderly manner,
like in an empty amusement park.
“the fire smells good”, says someone,
and i nearly choke at the absurdity,
but i have to agree, it smells like
nostalgia, the plumes of charred plastic
filaments, remnants of 3d printers
bringing me back to better days.
as the chaos rolls along in the background,
we order truffle pasta from the vending machine,
giggle at the firemen who lost their way
and watch the sorry-excuse of a smoke
trailing away into the blindingly blue sky
as the exhausted sirens blare once again.
Mar 19, 2024
Mar 19, 2024 at 9:21 AM UTC
Sometimes I get sad
like REALLY sad
Actually not just sometimes but all the time
my chest would feel like an empty grave
screaming for it’s tenant.
The gaping hole that longs for someone to cradle into the night
A lover longing for it’s beloved.
I would have thoughts of the things I have lost
like a tree wondering where it’s leaves have gone in the fall.
I have memories and feelings that I have flung to the back of my head
like ***** laundry that just waits for me to deal with it.
I know one day I will have to pick them up and shove them into the washing machine
but here I am just ignoring it.
I am running out of clean clothes to wear
and have a mountain of ***** clothes to face
I have sorrows that I have coated in caramel
like candied apples
thinking that they’d be sweet but they still taste so bitter.
My heart was burning house filled with people dancing in it
The people have grown tired have left
and the firemen have arrived.
Now it nothing but a soggy dance floor with a shattered disco ball.
A sun that has exploded and have become a super nova
reminiscing what it once was and mourning what it will never be.
I hope day I won’t feel as much sad
that one day I will have enough motivation to face that mountain of ***** clothes.
I hope that one day I will be brave enough to be happy.
But till then I hope y’all keep me company.
Cause sometimes, most of the time
One of the main reasons I sad is because
I am lonely.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
.
Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.
The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.
The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.
The raging fires melted steel.
South Tower started to collapse
The Bravest in her stairwells
never heard recall perhaps.
“Sweet Jesus, Make this end now!”
Some heard Father Mychal cry.
As Debris from the South Tower
Like a scythe came flying by.
It was blunt force trauma to the head
laid Father Mychal low.
His friends removed his body
before North tower, too, would go.
Thousands passed that terrible day;
the mighty and the small.
When responders came with body bags
Mychal was first of all.
Zero Zero Zero One
A strange number for a Priest,
who rushed where Angels feared to tread,
not fearful in the least
Dec 10, 2011
Dec 10, 2011 at 8:43 PM UTC
One does not question the holy
This sick sacrament of self-sacrifice is not holy
Dark filthy ****** mess of holy man
Thorny fool
This is not holy
*** and sweat
Dripping wet
With physical pleasure
Understanding
Educational leisure
That is better than holy
Compassion and wisdom
Built from shared experience
Creating empathy
Like blood pumping vessels
This is better than holy
Patience for others
And a little for myself
Intolerance for the arrogance of war
This is better than holy
Robed men and camouflaged faked heroes
Petulant posers and wealthy heirs
Are not the high end holy **** that we should smoke
Scholars and philosophers
Scientists and healers
Teachers and firemen
They are heroes
In reality the holy
Is just some mystic ********
Fake flesh and blood
Ritz crackers and grape juice
Some cryptic fascist leftover symbolism
To cow the masses in uneducated awe
**** that holy ****
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
We all grow.
Your closest friends seem to be leaving.
Yes we were kids I know,
We could be what we were pretending.
Like astronauts, presidents,
super heroes, firemen.
Those were simple days
When we were kids just playing games.
But now...
Gold chains glow.
For some reason I’m still dreaming.
All the kids I know
Are needing something to believe in.
Money, drugs, *** poverty,
Liquor stores, and partying.
If this isn’t the real world is this all just still a game?
And now...
Time moves slow.
It seems like I was only dreaming.
We’re not the kids I know.
It’s really hard to keep believing in
Truth, love, and honesty.
So drop the chains, let’s sail these seas.
We could write stories about what we have failed to be.
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary….
When books are replaced with Kindles and Nooks,
and content resides on the cloud,
It is relatively easy to delete certain works
at the whim of the haughty and proud.
If libraries falter, wither and die
The poor will lose the printed word.
Ten percent of the market will quickly dry up
and the price of a book gets absurd.
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.
The pleasure we had in turning each page
as our minds raced ahead to the end.
Short battery life never hindered our quest
when **** Jane and Spot were our friends.
A storm on the Sun bringing ionized rays
and digital files are undone.
and force us to search yellow crumbling pages
for rumors of Kipling and Donne.
Remember, the firemen are rarely necessary.
Was Bradbury right? Should we all memorize
the words born of our favorite pen?
Imagine reciting Shakespeare’s Hamlet by heart
so that silence won’t win in the end.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
I'm melting
Icicles crashing
snow fashioned animals
melting from beneath
melting
this ice carousel
******* breaking
cant you hear hear me
I shall hibernate in the eyes of winter. Torpor in the wake of fall.
Crucify the image i made of you
Mount corpus delecti Ensconce The carcass on my ceiling wall
I’m reminded now of that creature when i sleep or i wake
I need this stone of guilt wound around my vertebrae
So it hangs so it hangs so it sways with the weather vane
So it hangs so it hangs
So it slowly brings feelings again
We need this Contrition On the roof of our eyelids
To the struts of our mouth guilt through your body infest
Every nook and cranny
I crush all these blown glass animals. They all try and creep to my brain hiding in the amygdala
Take shards of them
Ingest them
Carve your likeness in my arms
No beat can hit me hard enough
No stone breaking bones could slough
How this carnival creature menagerie
Has destroyed all my self conscious stockpile
Esteem was a book that sold millions of copies and mine burnt up
The firemen. Came and disintegrate the pages in a pile a mass grave of individual triumph
Carousels destroy childhood
Holding hands destroys manhood
Just when you think you can finally stomach the ride
Those fingers course up your arm down your throat and pull out your insides
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore
Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word
In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.
With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames
But they are gone and you are gone
And never will I hear
Your soft and **** gentle voice
Or hold your body near
Late at night near Trinity
among the weathered stones
Do I hear the weeping of lost souls
-Or is it just the wind 's low moan?
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC