What Cometh... Goes

Old wounds never die, they just greet each new day a little further away.

What Cometh... Goes


There cometh a cloud like a coal black blight
as if I climb through cotton hills by night
where cherry color cheeks smile past a chill
which, deeply burning, cuts my coat at will.

And spring!  Whose vibrant blossoms taste no pain
do ever reach to suckle at the rain
so safely far from present plight of cold
kept, inside close, does warm those wounds of old.