The moment is borne on the break of the morn with a hope

gilt (Photo credit: jenny downing)

whispered well from the night.

That the soul can be torn-

with the tiniest scorn of a mind uncaring, asleep-

is truer than writ

and often is split with normalcy’s lure in it’s mouth.

The joy of the pain of memory’s gain

becoming a burst-

a purified trout breaking up.

Always happily glancing-

sometimes lightly dancing-

eternity treading lightly on brow.

But there followed behind

the laughing mind,

quietly mocking it all-

paining the heart

and ruining the art that

so gracefully graced the wall.
~D Gregory Smith