THE BUMPS AND THE GRINDS

                I feel past ages come seeping in on me,
                Like fog on a Newfoundland bay.
                Dim, far memories, inexorably creeping:
                Soft-spoken killer, here to stay.

                Trapped by my need! Controlled by my greed!
                I planted new doubts while I spilled my seed...
                Looked on in horror as the fires flamed high!
                Provided the light we killed the good times by.

                I feel past ages come creeping up on me
                Like a tide, rising higher and higher.
                Dim, far memories (Assasins foul!)
                The ones that put out the fire!

                Your laugh grows uncertain in my ear,
                Whenever you feel those legions draw near
                That slip out of  cover (and out of your head);
                The spirits that haunt your battlefield bed.

                I feel distant winds come sweeping over me
                Like the scent of ancient pain.
                Whispering insistent, and haunting, questions
                Like: When will we be together again?