Literary Orphans – Kurt Baumeister

This mansion

is lonely, unlovely

filled with drafts and cries

weak fires in our nights

the burning face of the present

consumes memories

rules my thoughts.

We have come to know

this melancholy too well

have come to love

lacking anything else.

I know sadness could be broken

by the gentlest breeze

but I fear any wind

would stoke these flames

until nothing would remain

but a skeleton of embers

to bear our love’s weight.

Kurt Baumeister