The Opposite Of Love

The Opposite of Love

Some people think

The opposite of love

Is hate...

That’s a big mistake;

When you’ve loved someone

With all your soul,

And poured everything

From your heart,

When you’ve loved-someone

So deeply from the start

And then love-leaves-you,

Like a soul-shattering-pain-of-glass

You’re hoping soon that-this-will-pass

Wondering how the hell

Did your wires-get-so-crossed?

The opposite of love

Is not hate at all

The opposite of Love

is

Loss…
 

©8DaveWonder

Her Violin Sings At Night

Her Violin Sings at Night

She plays softly by the moonlight
In mournful solitude surrounded by mist
With the moon listening to the violin's song.
The notes caress the stars at night
As the violin sings with her tenderness.
The night carries the music along.

She comes alone at night to sit by the lake
And pour her heart into the violin's strings.
The violin's voice haunts the nighttime air.
She plays a song of longing that makes her heart break.
Her spirit weeps as her violin sings,
While into the night rises a song of despair.

The moon and the stars lend their ears
As the solitary maiden comes to play
And the mournful notes take flight.
They listen until the sun's greeting nears
And the tune finishes with the birth of the day,
But will be started anew when her violin sings at night.

Copyright 2011, William Michael Winegar

Moon Maiden

Moon Maiden

Her eyes, two of the brightest
stars in the firmament
smile dazzling enough
for midnight frolics.
She is enveloped in a dazzling
aureole of  moonlight
so intense, so concentrated
no language
can aspire to describe.

Author unknown
 

The Past

Faulkner said: “The past is never dead; it’s not even past.”

All of us labor in webs spun long before we were born, webs of heredity and environment, of desire and consequence, of history and eternity.

Haunted by wrong turns and roads not taken, we pursue images perceived as new but whose provenance dates to the dim dramas of childhood, which are themselves but ripples of consequence echoing down the generations. The quotidian demands of life distract  from this resonance of images and events, but some of us feel it always.

From “The Quiet Game” by Greg Iles

But Tomorrow

 

 

But tomorrow, dawn will come the way I picture her,
    barefoot and disheveled, standing outside my window
    in one of the fragile cotton dresses of the poor.
    She will look in at me with her thin arms extended,
    offering a handful of birdsong and a small cup of light.

~ William Collins (December 25, 1721 - February 17, 1847)