Amiss

The passion amiss, a passing scene—

This is life! The disappointment,

And routine… This is life, the simplicity

Of breathing, and being held half asleep.

Love is buried beneath the visions,

The illusions that cannot be proved—

The warmth of our blood, tenderness.

Strings of faith are tethered and

Knotted—we are entirely empty,

And entities of repugnant vices.

One day we will wake, old and grey

And our lives will have lasted

No more than a few fluttering

Heartbeats; the future nears.

We are still children at heart,

And perhaps that is the cause of fright—

What if life will never be more

Than a series of dilemmas?

A piece of us burned in the flames,

The fire scorched our sobriety

And left us cold at heart.

      DannYetman

www.yetmanpoetry.blogspot.com