Where Lost Time Stands Still

a faltering state of mind
calls this pittance to arms
the paltriest paradigm
of pandering charms
defaulting to circumstance
chants ruing the day
in vaults of indignance
locked deftly away
a vacuous feeling
since stolen from god
that once seemed appealing
now dolent and odd
beyond every precipice
where lost time stands still
and thoughts of our sins escape
from cells of spent will
but dare never to look back
lest our sanity fall
from blight into blackness
confined to mute walls
constructed of naught but
our lies and laments
in reveries e’er fraught
with heaven’s repent

Author: Max Meunier

Feminist. Ailurophile. Musician. Poet. Human.

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