the day comes to me gray, and speaks
of distant shores and tidal wreck;
we are no more than spray that lands
upon the rocks, the shore, a deck --
a bit of motion brief, a wash
that slow recedes back into time;
a vapor of belief, that's gone,
or ossifies to frost
and rime
she comes to me gray and aging
like she wasn't when i knew her
beneath the clouds of autumn
in the silence of my yard
i spread my arms to greet her
but she walks on towards the shadow
for there is nothing more to say
we didn't say before
the fading years they are our base
we build on them or nothing
and layers underneath aren't such
we get to lay again
she passes me gray and sorrowful
like i've become in wishing
that angel cloud shapes floating by
could alter what
has been
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Tagged: Tags #Project2020 La Synthèse NanoPoblano2020 Poetry
Published by 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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