If I
If I...
If I, upon waking, remember you not...
If the torrents of lost love grow cold where once hot
And ooze from this ebbing flow of life...
Trickling...trickling...trickling into the night
Where wanton souls are forgot:
Where will I be? And, what is my lot?
Abandoned as unpicked fruit left to rot
On a spiraling trellis---the ravenous in sight---
Hammering...hammering...hammering in thrustful plight
I aimlessly wander the same spot.
©deborah burch
2005
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