Gone with the wind, and naught remains |
but dust in your passing, and that
not worth the proverbial black powder and lead
to blow such irritant into the Hinterlands.
Where thy compassion, the murmur within thy bosom
which surely thou possess?
Couldst thee not proffer but the tiniest spark of caring,
a warm embrace, a brushing of lips
upon this fevered brow?
Ah, depart then witch,
and look not back upon that which thou leaveth behind,
for those as have so done became pillars of salt
and this lowly servant imagines thee
becoming enough of that commodity
to fill the universe!
© 2019 Metaphor
(All rights reserved)