Lost are many things
And forgotten follows a close second,
Though never have I ever reckoned
These are where my love falls.
No, it lives.
A hungered stray slinking on its haunches,
The lost and the forgotten maybe,
But never a ghost.
Because as a stray it finds,
A winding beaten trail
Worn down by comers and goers, those vagabonds,
Brow-beaten and frail.
A cozy house though,
On the steadfast search,
Arises to nearly all who seek it.
That little love, finding its perch,
Settles down. Lapping at milk outside
And strolling though a little door,
It nestles up against a heart,
Dying to live forevermore.