Richard Butler Glaenzer

O BYGONE raptures, bygone tortures,

Why have you become no more

Than the colors and the shadows

Of a distant faded tapestry …

Wrinkled by a breeze?

Lifted by tenderness, I have sung:

“This shall wing me through dusk,

Lighten the anguish of death.”

Stunned by betrayal, I have groaned:

“This shall darken the dawn,

Stab me with every sunbeam,

Lame me so long as I live.”

And now you are no more mine

Than the colors and the shadows

Of a distant faded tapestry …

Wrinkled by a breeze.

Yet I continue to spend hours

Figuring what lies beyond—

A window, a doorway or a wall.