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Lost Inspiration

Time burns in me a shadow, which falls before me and behind.

It pulls away my memories and puts doubt upon my mind.

I bring it forth to find.

But I am blind.


Music soothes my troubled soul and makes me laugh; then makes me cry.

It moves my heart to flutter and makes me wonder how and why.

I sing it if I try.

But I am shy.


Sunlight lifts my very spirit as it cracks my weary mold.

It fools me with a feeling; I am so young, though I am old.

I reach for it to hold.

But I am cold.


Friendship offers me a chance; forget the lonely days ahead.

Dreams and aspirations I gain, old fears and despair I shed.

I’d break with him the bread.

But I am dead.

Lane Diamond — August 10, 1986



He beats on the door his lonely, upbeat tempo as he yearns.

Nobody understands or sees or cares to hear.

His thoughts scream out in a silent rush and quietly he learns.

He smiles with no feeling as he weeps with no tear.

Memories explode as a thought imagined-real slowly burns.

Crushed beneath the wheel he acknowledges no fear.


His goal pours out as whispers in a storm, where it whips and dies.

There are no gifts or grand rewards for him to steal.

His sanity drifts as rationality takes wing and flies.

No one speaks the truth and no one offers a deal.

He dreams only the wicked dreams that tease and taunt him with lies.

Long held aspirations are just imagined-real.


Visions flash and disappear with neither freedom nor the truth.

In sweeps determined fury on a gentle breeze.

Another non-beginning precedes another ill-spent youth.

His heart they capture and break and his will they seize.

False faces show themselves as they comfort his soul and they soothe.

With all that’s imagined-real his vanity flees.

Lane Diamond — September 22, 1989


Pained Soul

Breathe deep, twilight calls him, it whispers his only name

Pray keep, as night falls dim, sly tricksters hunt lonely game


Suffer, bold night’s command, born of deep shadowed mind

Buffer, hold right one’s hand, mourn not the hallowed kind


Pained soul, answer their call, sing hope upon the troubled

Feigned whole, tether their fall, bring rope to clear the rubble


Tell all, and hold it firm, release our glory’s host high

Hell fall, to scold and squirm, it flees our stories most nigh

Lane Diamond — October 7, 2008


A Broken Dream

Crickets sing their sorrowful serenade, as embers of the dawn ignite.

My mind still lingers in a broken dream, against which I’ve no will to fight.

In an ebbing tide of hope and desire, my thoughts drift over memory lane,

To visions of what my life would become, grand plans cast utterly in vain.


I still recall every guy from the gang, telling stories around campfires,

As we drank warm beers and rocked to cool songs, each of us dreamers and liars.

Foul gossip about the hot girls from school, fueled our lies and twisted tales.

Casual winks, guffaws and loud snickers, exposed our most insincere wails.


Nights in spotlight on the basketball team, cherishing every game we won,

Finding a familiar face in the crowd, where a father bonded with son.

In school commons during free periods, we played Pinochle all the day,

Or practiced in groups a foreign language, so that “Je peux parler Francais.”


Redheads in Science and blonds in English, the French teacher we guys adored,

Shattered the endless rhythm and routine; a cure for the hopelessly bored.

Weekends heralded escape from the grind, sanctuaries of fun and thrills.

Friday night at the drive-in theater brought romance, adventure and chills.


Graduation arrived on summer winds; we simmered and stewed in our gowns.

Ceremony stopped and parties began; at keggers our sorrows were drowned.

Yearbooks were passed among the attendants, and everyone signed them the same.

“Good luck and have a good time in college,” followed by illegible names.


We all saw each other from time to time, in the hot summer days ahead.

With names and addresses, we’d stay in touch, or so that’s what everyone said.

I wrote some letters that fall in college, but never did get a reply.

I gave up all hope of receiving one, after a few months had gone by.


Thirty years later, I’ve seen an old friend, a neighbor from the glory days.

We smoked a cigar as we reminisced, before going our separate ways.

With my cell number and email address, he assured me he’d stay in touch.

I insisted that I would do the same, though it might be asking too much.


Friends drift apart as we seek our own way.  How can we expect any less?

Yet I seek salvation in the lifeboat, as I flounder in this distress.

Crickets sing their sorrowful serenade, as embers of the dawn ignite.

My mind still lingers in a broken dream, against which I’ve no will to fight.

Lane Diamond — July 31, 2009


1 Comment

  1. Kimberly Kinrade


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