The Madness Of Four Lost Lambs Poem by John Christensen

The nascent glow of my corner lamp
Casts doubt on the walls
Red shadows, lurid and mellifluous
Their tone a knell

Forsaken names fall from my shoulders
Cast upon the floor like bones
Auguring my destiny
Their entrails wither in the heat

Vainly, I wail with outstretched hands
Pleading with the Heavens
For one moment free of doubt or shame
Silence echoes the only answer I hear

A knot of chaos wavers before my eyes
Wavering wildly, as heat off summer streets
Formless and buzzing like invisible insects
Just as quickly order reasserts its hold