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Subject: Time
From: blackpoo...@aol.com (Edward Rochester Esq.)
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by: Edward Rochester Esq - Wed, 11 Jan 2023 03:13 UTC

Time

How soon it all turns into desert,
all those that crowded the landscape,
dotted the horizon, now only blank spaces
where once thrived the beat of diverse hearts,
the smiles of getting
what hadn’t been gotten before
and the vomit of excess
into hangover mornings
of do it again foolishness.

They’re gone, those silly clowns;
the strive for acceptance no matter
the cost;
littered now, their headstones,
empty acorn shells, after a squirrel’s visit
and memories that start to fade,
though you remember the names,
and try to piece together the faces
whose breath was as close
as comradeship.

A desert begins to appear
those lush greens of yesterday
turning gray with a stare into
chicken noodle soup, hot steam
fogging further the memory
of youthful wanderings.

Edward Rochester Esq.

I've got a bad feeling about this.

arts / alt.arts.poetry.comments / Time

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