Quiet. Cool forest. Little creek.
I hear angels. I hear them speak.
Autumn comes. She will not.
Her battle won. Her battle fought.
Ghosts can’t haunt the bandstand.
I sleep there, her Armageddon planned.
A lock of her hair hold scents of perfume.
It’s seal holds our hands fast, hurries doom.
I lost my way home. I was directed too.
In cold, stony ground, her orchids grew.
A derelict department store has the grail.
The church took the casket, kept her wedding veil.
Autumn is a sweet kiss before she slumbers.
I’ll have to stay awake, keep dialing God’s numbers.
She is close, but being unable to touch hurts.
Stay away from the club on Farragut’s outskirts.
I keep a lock of her soul in my whirling wings.
I hear her. I hear heaven. How this wonder stings!