When last breath of windsongs play
the leaves,
the days of truth and lilac blooms
is known.
In shadows of cloistered memories,
new wine, old lace,
some fires will still burn.

Love is like that sometimes,
taking what it doesn't need,
needing what it leaves behind.
In those secluded moments when 
all that's left is the stirring
of our heart, no righteous masks
can then be worn,
and unselfish love remembered,
leaves lust forever scorned.

copyright January 1999
Judith Anne Labriola

sunflo3289@aol.com

Please email me and let me know what you think!