Wasted Breath

7) Wasted by the journey whence I came; see,
I languish in silence; silence. Just be
Is all that I hear, the symphony of
The fall so clearly endured, the red glove
Of my life that I did so freely love,
Now sings to me of some heavenly dove.
It mingles with pain to roam ever through
The shingles of my soul; I wane, never
To wax into shining vein. I hoped to
Relax, in fond memories halls; but grope
For freedom, bonds of rage do band my arms.
I close my eyes, the gauge of hate stands by;
But I do not seize upon the spate now past,
I cry out, perhaps too late, for what lasts. 

                                                                            Wasted Breath, (C) Luke Bennette, April 2012