POEM: The Devil’s Hour

I’ll not weep in, this, the Devil’s hour.
I might not laugh, but I won’t be dour.

The blur of winged fury sweeps above.
Each thinks of his first and last love,
wondering which of these memories
his dying mind will last see.

Whichever it is, I’ll not be dour,
though this be the devil’s hour.

5 thoughts on “POEM: The Devil’s Hour

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