adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, July 02, 2011

Retreat

I made my retreat from love,
vowed to never turn;
swore to heaven, high above,
all I left, I'd burn,
and plow salt into the ground
where love had once grown.

One green sprig its way has found,
one small seed was sown;
From the poisoned earth it sprang,
where no thing should thrive,
where no bee droned, no bird sang,
hope remained alive.

Stephen Brooke ©2011

I thought I might have a longer poem here but this pretty much says it. If I added more I'd most likely start repeating myself.

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