In my heart the loopholes of the lost are
laced with golden harp strings
playing daily in the ballroom where
dance the lonely ones.
Shimmering, moldering loves arise
to meet me face-to-face.
I’ve come unlaced.
Things are not how they seem but otherwise.
Come let us sing and play the songs we
love so much.
Perhaps the heart will grace us with its
The heart with no companion
is the sweetest note….
Author, Life With A Hole In It