And the cup which filled the spirit
with hope was stained red,
as murmured voices reach out to
break the silence.
It’s easy to wallow in the depths
of despair as memories flutter in
and out like ghosts,
though the sullen part is beating
one’s fist against the casement
renouncing dreams and claims.
Dissolved in chaos the eyes create
a new language that begs
weave a future from the muddled
Photo credits: The Cup – Adolph de Meyer 1912
Posted for “Camera Flash” @ Real Toads
Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United