It hurts, <br />This betrayal of pristine dreams, <br />And the endless unspoken whispers <br />That grave age and tested wisdom <br />Have whistled into the wind; <br />A heart true to betrayal, <br />Smarting like pepper <br />In a freshly wound. <br />* * * * <br />And counting, <br />Just counting on languid fingers <br />Endless times of grief <br />With graying whispers <br />From dear matrons grown morbid <br />With packed anger. <br />You are like a dream hatched <br />One season too late <br />Before the Harvest.<br /><br />Kwame atta Pappoe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/anima-christi/
