Hanging Over

Where will we be in our wandering hours,
When the quarter light splits the night
And we toll the dreaded dower?
Recalling divine heroes of mendacious dreams;
Clad with charm and courage
To win the heart of fair maiden.
Never a vile wretch of visceral intent;
Hound laden.

We never question its worth,
Trying to remember
Memories of memories.
Sunday morning was made
For tapping at the door,
And made to lurk about the house,
Play the great predatory game,
Building a dead man's gallows.