An Open Gate to Nowhere

I see the open gate,
And notice that you’re late;
The summer’s nearly almost gone,
We must soon acclimate

To colder sorts of days,
To autumn’s turn of phrase:
The summer’s nearly almost gone,
With all of its malaise.

Where once love was alive,
And seemed to grow and thrive,
We find ourselves at loggerheads,
And never did arrive

At summer’s loving place.
There’s truth we have to face —
We find ourselves at loggerheads;
We’re just another case –

Of gardens, overgrown –
Of truth that’s still unknown —
An open gate to nowhere, and
A man who’s still
Alone

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

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