~for Steve and Marshall~
“*And the drowsy old world’s growing gloomy and gray,
While the joys that are sweetest are passing away;
And the charms that inspire like the picture of dawn
Are but playthings of Time—they gleam and are gone,
While the drowsy world dreams on.*”
"The Drowsy World Dreams On" by Walter Everette Hawkins
<|>
my personal time ladder, nearer to the top step,
hungrily devour the photographs of time’s daily sweets,
every natural picture evokes gasping, wonderful wonder,
acutely aware and wary that this confirms my duality,
rejecting and welcoming the nearer end of my personal poem
the poems of many-a-day stored securely in the ever expanding
internet, for memory is the most untrustworthy partner, and who? will retrieve, reinspect them, clapping to their bright shining, who in teary wake, be commanded by my no more heart beat-throbbing, an irony unflattering, as my disposition ranking first among the
forever stillest
some few gleam and gone; in the wee hours, when I enter
the confessional, both priest and penitent, my sins gleam
for but a moment and the priest sadly informs, there is no prayer or poem that will forgive your multitude of poor paths taken, of love ungiven, craven cowardice of safety’s paths taken when choice was offered
these poems are merely
the residue of a life poorly lived,
poorly given, seeking no mercy,
for if I cannot forgive myself,
why should you?
10-18-21
11:39AM
Oct 18, 2021
Oct 18, 2021 at 11:29 PM UTC
~for Steve and Marshall~
“*And the drowsy old world’s growing gloomy and gray,
While the joys that are sweetest are passing away;
And the charms that inspire like the picture of dawn
Are but playthings of Time—they gleam and are gone,
While the drowsy world dreams on.*”
"The Drowsy World Dreams On" by Walter Everette Hawkins
<|>
my personal time ladder, nearer to the top step,
hungrily devour the photographs of time’s daily sweets,
every natural picture evokes gasping, wonderful wonder,
acutely aware and wary that this confirms my duality,
rejecting and welcoming the nearer end of my personal poem
the poems of many-a-day stored securely in the ever expanding
internet, for memory is the most untrustworthy partner, and who? will retrieve, reinspect them, clapping to their bright shining, who in teary wake, be commanded by my no more heart beat-throbbing, an irony unflattering, as my disposition ranking first among the
forever stillest
some few gleam and gone; in the wee hours, when I enter
the confessional, both priest and penitent, my sins gleam
for but a moment and the priest sadly informs, there is no prayer or poem that will forgive your multitude of poor paths taken, of love ungiven, craven cowardice of safety’s paths taken when choice was offered
these poems are merely
the residue of a life poorly lived,
poorly given, seeking no mercy,
for if I cannot forgive myself,
why should you?
10-18-21
11:39AM
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