Dried logs at the preserve,
forgotten by the lushness around,
Burnt logs by sunrays of indifference.
Logs near Kitching Creek,
pine needles dangling, soothing breezes soften the air around the logs.
Erected pine trees
stand adamant and firm,
like foremen by the clock of the seasons.
Pine Cones at the crown of the trees;
pine cones by their dried roots on the ashen sand.
A thriving log tries to set roots once again; the nature around it
engulfed its hopes.
The surplus of my physical life needs much repair.
It happens that my knees ache—a couple of wooden strips and nails would straighten my stride.
My buttocks need much lifting—a couple of inflatable pillows to prop them up would do.
My nose is as submissive as it has been for decades—perhaps a hook or a couple of toothpicks can help regain its pride
The hues of my countenance had become so ashen and wan—a couple of strokes of cheap exterior paint would bring me back in sight.
My skin sags and hangs so loosely from my bones—a forgotten raincoat on the rack of monotony.
And with this—Time keeps ticking!
The wind grasps the crown of green trees
As they dance synchronized, swaying free,
As Playful cunning, fox-like trickery
Enclosed, a suitcase holds dreams indeed
Autumn leaves all fading tawny brown
Allegorical floats, there roar the crowds
While decorated wagons elusively depart
A man vainly grasps the faded handle bar
The clock still fixed at 4 o'clock
Fresh hands admire and mercilessly mock
The sound of consciousness echoes a reply
A shielded soothing, wisdom now by his side
Has the carnival exited the town?
The streets are vast, brooms dwindle on the ground
Youth has departed, a lonesome effect
Darkness grows, a time to reflect
Bedazzled Adonis, petals imminently fall
The promising path has bent for all
It's the last pristine day of forty springs
Inevitable fate that age brings.
(Written in 2014)
In thin stems hangs a bud
treasured for the time to come
and uncertainty caresses its delicate conviction
and the seemed is suddenly unseen
A loyal and fair companion
the axe that slashes through time is unexpected
the erected ego stands tall upheld by fortune’s misfortune
and the life of others cruises showcasing ones’ own decaying affliction
A quick reminder in the long spectrum
death, a feared accomplice
time and patience seem to mold
everlasting victory into striking defeat
All is left is ashes
dust to rebuild, soil to nurture
a new stem is reborn and
a proud man learns his lesson
— The End —