The hunt begins where silence
ends, in the active evening
bliss, where once their were
dreams to hold, and lovers
gathered flowers among sweetness
of the wild.
The captive mind as wounds
to harsh to heal, in the light
of centeries, where only tears
fell in vain without a spoken
word.
Echos float among clouds
of white, lingering it's cries
among the best, where only
children of today can rule
out each, one by one, without
the mark of innocence.
The hunt begins with prayers
in vain, with tears falling
with each whisper of the night,
when shadows are darkened
deeper, without question.
Dreams are still for dreamers,
cutting out the mystic spells
that control a lovers heart,
while only a thought can
make the hunt end without
any bad memories of yesterday.