Among the lilacs trees.
Thinking of the last act.
In the quiet silence of the room.
Where memories are shaken,
The voyage of life is taken,
At the moment of farewell.
The daffodils have died,
Just when spring heralds the first faint flush of summer.
How cruel it is to be young.
Having no remorse.
And how easy it is to despise,
The insistent ramblings of the wise.
I see the certainty in their eyes.
Their clearness as the vast blue sky.
The first heat of the summer I recall,
And the invincibility of it all.
Yet there are signs in the verdant heat,
Of the long road and the trepidation
Of the journey.
Where life’s soliloquy cannot understand,
The anguish of the first step,
And the absence of your hand.
For even time is ephemeral,
Where the lost linger and the future holds promises
That can never be fulfilled.
As the efflorescence of life tires,
Becoming torpid, losing its desires.
Autumn falls like a millstone.
Jarring your confidence.
Seeping desperation in your bones.
Trying to stem the tide and your fate.
Picking your path through the stones,
Knowing that it’s all a little late.
Perhaps as winter settles in,
With the quiet discomfort of regret.
As the last leaves fall about your feet,
And swirl around the corners of the street.
Where the snows cling to the gutters,
You may recall the sordid memories
That constitute the soul.
That place where promises and failure meet,
Drowned out by the steady hand of defeat.
The last bastion of despair,
That breaks the mind and fouls the air.
Becomes the nightmare as the day retires,
The masquerade as your heart expires.