by Paul Roe

Created on: May 15, 2009

Trapped away from truth and love,
I lie here in my house,
With friends to call, but none that see,
I feel like a mouse.

Come Halloween, they whistle out
And lurk the streets till dawn,
Buried high in paperwork,
Or lost in fields of corn.

They leave the world to fall away
And land on glass and urn,
To seek the waves that chant and shriek,
To hedonism turn.

Set to lonely is this haunt
Which praises distant souls,
Sent to us should be the songs
That make us stir the fold.

Learn more about this author, Paul Roe.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.