"stoically" poems
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 8:07 AM UTC
How many are there
That can quietly put up with death
Stoically going through the pain
A stubbornness to make death envious
Of life and the living!
How many are there
That can count up to end
Breathes where others see death
Holds on when there seems nothing to hold onto
As if to tell, ‘life is no pity, it’s dignity’!
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
My dreams
do not come attached to
the ideals of my people
or the sacrifices of another country.
Instead I am poor
and mine are clinging to life
the very idea of existence.
Mundane flashes--
not adventurous endeavors
nor flights around the world
this is what richly folks do.
Simply a mingler
someone whose life
flourishes around the bends
of florescent street lights
and panhandling
nearby a farmers market
just after sunrise.
This remnant is few
as these are neighbors
local countrymen
who stoically face
the world's deviation
and deprivation
from coexisting
by the bonds of
agriculture and personality
even as a beggar
it is but a joyous memento
to a world that
no longer thrives.
May 30, 2016
May 30, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
The Slow-Bullet
by rgpage
In the early days of Viet Nam
the American draft was going strong.
Young men in their prime of life,
were forced and herded into world strife.
A generation of America’s best, were
then brought home and laid to rest.
Wall Street smiled, the money flowed
the “fat Cats” called it money owed.
In towns and cities big and small,
families waited, worried, and cried.
Groups appeared, dissention grew.
"Mothers grab your son’s and hide."
There were those who felt their duty strong,
to take the leap toward blood and strife
with McNamara herding them along.
Known to the grunts as “Mac the Knife.”
The madness grew to a global scale
with those that were for and those against.
In bombing, selective targets became the norm
keeping the rest of the world from harm.
With those who didn’t feel their duty strong,
a path to the north they took.
They packed what they could, burned their cards
and paused for one last look.
With this some parents felt relief,
while others felt the disgrace. Of seeing
the grief so many went through after
having their futures erased.
The war took over 58,000 American lives;
men and women both, (before we flew away).
Wall Street got their wages for blood, with
broken lives in pain, many thousands more would pay.
With thousands more that were yet to be lost, after returning home.
Physically and mentally scarred, even those seeming
perfectly whole. Then saying good-by to the ones they loved
in their own special way. They stoically waited for the slow-bullet to come to finally take them away…
Suicide has taken 3 or 4 times the lives than the war took. My heart cries for every last one of them…Robert G. Page, Viet Nam Vet. ‘66-’67.
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 2:48 PM UTC
For nine days the artillery barrage
rained down on us
that June of summer in the Somme
machine gunners like me waited
in our concrete bunkers deep in the earth
When the shelling stopped
we rushed to the surface
and began our job of mowing down
the slow walking British Infantry
stoically advancing as if in another war
in another time where they might choose
to die bravely and with honour
a hero fighting for his life
his king and country
But here he dies unknown
by the chance turning of my gun
in his direction at that one moment
and the random number of bullets
left to fire.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Things happened, and
He bore them stoically, as is his way,
He let them shape him, he endured.
Things happened, and
He battled, shattered, but determined,
Born again from grief and pain.
Things happened, and
He built a fort with a towering wall,
Existed inside, with his pain and his pride.
Things happened, and
He let me in, gifted me his trust,
I am more, being his, than I ever was before.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
The irreveracable state of falling moral
Piecing together newspaper dooms dayers
Always curious about generalized detachment
Yet unable to see the forest for the trees
Picket lines are home
Raging infernos of injustice and malcontent
Laying stoically at their doorstep
Wrapped messily in insomniac nightmares at yours
Big, BOLD letters voicing the masses
We are, We are
Oppressed, Depressed, Repressed
No longer though
Passing out the hymnals of our revolution
Unsatisfied but spent
I sit back and enjoy the show
Saturating my senses with the smell of burning GMO fields
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 10:13 AM UTC
At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late.
I have now waited over an hour
And my mood is surely turning sour.
I crane my neck for the glimpse of that bus
Which, when moves makes ruckus.
I am excited by the noise of yonder thunder
Alas it turns out to be a school bus, oh what a blunder.
I'm tired, hungry and even ready for bed
Yet compelled to wait for the bus in red.
If only I had money for a three wheeler
Alas I can't afford it on my income meager.
My patience is put to a severe T-E-S-T
As I stoically wait for the B-E-S-T.
A serpentine queue has now formed
But come the bus its door will be stormed.
My hopes rise upon the sight of something red
Alas it's a bus of another route instead.
The hunger has traveled from stomach to mind
Can someone please a solution to this delay find?
At the 206 bus stop I patiently wait
For the red bus that's always late!
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
Through the miracle of meteorology, up high - little by little
parts of me was made, without form within a clouds middle,
and eventually, formed in unique designs, lighter than feathers,
temperature and water work together to produce, a period of weather.
When shapes, never repeated - but in approximation, begin to fall, as snow,
feasibly forecasted, sometimes not so, down on to the surface below.
And so as blanket laid, across town and countryside, fields and city mews,
changing the familiar, smoothing contours, into new landscape views.
The material soft, white glistening snow so miraculously delivered,
at earliest opportunity is introduced to excited shouts, laughter, and shivers.
Fittingly gathered by adult and children's hand, with the goal - to build a man.
midst joyful sounds, travellers moans and snowball fights, the creators plan,
By rolled ball pile and heaped snow I was born, created by many in several places,
some small and really, lovingly made. Others large with various, curious, hats and faces.
All - to stand appreciatively of of the makers time, to create me and proudly put on show.
Winter feeds our lifetime span with cold wind, colder nights and, temperatures low,
we stand as white statuary, where children play, soon - will come the expected day
a thaw, will take our sustainability of cool, and so little by little I, and others go away,
with saddened countenance creators watch as we bend, wither and slouch,
stoically accepting this is, as is. Snowy days will return, snowmen too, I can vouch.
It’s a happy sadness for snowman builders and snowmen too, who together
wait in anticipation for fun and creativity, the joyful side of snowy weather.
From a Snowman
Michael C Crowder 23rd January 2019
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 5:09 AM UTC
Generous coasting of the west coast
leaves me tangled in roots from roads
intersecting with waves surfed by
long blond-haired beach bums and
babes who pant at a muscular man
that pushups on the boardwalk
next to towels drying on the
handlebars of my bicycle.
I ride and ride and ride
through weather thought to be
unrideable by most cyclists
even if million-dollar-prize
tempted them at the finish line
and a set-for-life sponsorship
was promised to any and all
who could fight through the storms
of what I stoically battle.
No gear or goggles,
just legs of toned steel from
nights spent heating them over
a log-lit fireplace on spit
while keeping intense conversation
with lover across my gaze
until she escapes unexpectedly
into dreams, unaccompanied by me.
My legs are on fire,
no rain can extinguish them
and no slick roads
will stop my going.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 10:03 PM UTC
my son is a better version of me
i easily break
he rides storms smilingly
i crumble in a crisis
he handles stoically
my emotions play loud on face
he hides it handsomely
i'm doubtful of exploring
he ventures courageously
i speculate on life too much
he bothers not seriously
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC
*You sat next to me in quietude
But your heartbeats called me deafeningly
Reluctant to hear your voice rupture
While I waited for my name to echo stoically
You sat next to me in quietude
But you fought the guilt inside you solely
Tackled it with a valiant front
As I watched you succumb inside me spiritually
You sat next to me in quietude
Acknowledging we love semovedly
You succumbed harder in your world
And I succumbed in return silently*
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
Night Train, travel through the world unknown
The black hills with a maroon sky thick behind it
The metallic sound of friction valiantly losing battle to the poignant silence
Night Train, write an epic of the hands that cup around the eyes
Of the eyes that talk to the distant light
Of the lights that blink and the ones that stay still
Night Train, don't slow down for each breath falls faster than the wind outside
Night Train, don't slow down for the still is more piercing than the dark blades of grass lying far below
The rhythmic oscillation of the half sleeping bodies stacked one above the other
The threatening aura of the stiff backbones stoically awake
The lone observer is lost in the nightly delusion
Night Train, chronicle a dark fantasy of the broken fragments the night narrates
Night Train, stop, send a jolt, deaden the incantations
Before the dawn or its harbingers intrude
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC
The thumping and darkness in the bowels of Irene
sit lugubriously on the edge of serenity
the pounding and the tears through all these years
languishing in turpitude and solace from her knowledge
unceremoniously, recklessly and without feeling
while listening to her tongue lashing and
harshness of her venomous and thoughtless words
cracking like a whip, “do you think I’m an idiot”
Not once but twice while searching through black clouds
of disappointment and destitution … no rhyme…no reason.
All due to confusing north from south and east from west
reality from fantasy as we all feel the sound of her thunder
Irene crashes on and above the banks of New Haven,
Guilford, Fairfield and the Housatonic
lapping and licking at the shores while throwing
her magnificent weight in her favor, and the swells explode
the question, “how can she possibly know the children”
Even though downgraded and ebbing
the uneven strength and fortitude asks the question
and all my determination fades in the wind.
Trees weakened as we begin to dig out and explore
power lines and internet down, hampering communication
flooded streets and nervous bridges impeached
yet Irene serves notice with an ace of her own
dressed in her sheer-like vest and turquoise ring
her hazel eye filled with scorn and distain
while brightness and candor follow her path
with her feline temperament scratched and clawed
the tears begin to taper amidst her howling breath.
Irene begins to move northward stoically away from me.
I’m not a victim so I pick what remains of my heart
and begin to reattach my churning stomach
with the threads of her words of disbelief
bringing the force she was most capable of exerting
as the storm continues her long, unforgiven journey
hatred and disdain replaced by disinterest and apathy
as the breath disappears, the light becomes brighter
and Hurricane Irene decides to leave Connecticut
impact in place, on the broken bows of the sturdy trees
perhaps she was right, after all was said and done.
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 2:43 PM UTC
Paul Masson.
Hot sauce.
Colgate - old and stale
as puke.
Grease.
Newports.
Former head.
Recovery.
Country dirt.
Pecans.
Cotton.
A black fist held high.
Hope that one day
he'll be able to fit his ex-wives
into a nice,
cordial sentence.
Love.
Real love.
Man love.
Type love that kicks *** when it has to.
Sears cologne,
OG ****
Some Christianity,
but not a lot,
not nauseating
and obnoxious,
more like
quiet
and
almost not there.
More Masson.
More Newports.
Gold fillings;
the Midas Touch
on his tongue;
the ability
to blind you
in the glow of his breath.
Rotten *****
Real rotten.
Rotted to viral nostalgia
because it tastes
like ****
and makes him lick the roof
of his mouth
to get that smell
out,
just to make
room
for it
again.
Chitlins.
Obama's saliva.
Collard greens
with all the vinegar
and red pepper
in Satan's *******
Herman Cain's armpits.
Fear
for
me.
Love
for
me.
Power.
Former riverboat
porter.
The smell of rich white men
that talked about
*******
while he stood
stoically.
Strength
like
you've never
smelled before.
Human.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 10:16 PM UTC
alarm clock set for early morning
wails and peels without fair warning
rub my eyes in an effort to see
surprised to wake up in the state of VT
what is this, where did it go
whats a po’ boy doing far from buff’lo
where be the park, the lake and da’ strip
where are the people with the stiff upper lip
why leave the breeze, the squalls, the kimmelweck
the taverns where gran’pa drank anisette
that sycamore growin’ on Franklin street
the angst that consumed a community beat
the grimy grey skies to summers impossibly
what happened to lead me to the state of VT?
{not right to accuse others of conceit
why play handball with self deceit?
far better to accept the things that be
and apply my emotions, stoically}
for one place is much like the other
careers are for greenbacks, that’s why the bother
of numbers and lawyers, of panels of priests
up north, out west, down south and back east
I am dissolved in a prelude that leads to eternity
with so many points available, might as well be VT
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:02 AM UTC
One person is a multimillionaire
Another is a pick-pocket or liar
But all become one in they pyre
Mingling with the God of fire
God's gift is one's birth-place
Everyone, his sins will chase
God of death shows no grace
He will exactly count the days
Decide not man's worth by age
See whether he is in ignorance-cage
To come out, let him just manage
To help him, you have to encourage
One man is a monster
Another is an oyster
Yet another is a master
Let reasoning stop disaster
Knowledge if you accumulate
Great actions, you can emulate
Noble schemes, you can formulate
Let not the beginning be too late
Create, invent and discover
Pray to God for safety-cover
Scent-power is had by a flower
Your aims, do not at all lower
Edison in his greatest experiment
Faced stoically every disappointment
One day he invented the filament
Then light entered into every apartment
In this way, many geniuses were born
They initially walked on pricking thorn
Their brainy heads, crowns did adorn
They were proved to be great later on
Just go back in your memory lane
Had anyone thought of a flying-plane?
Wright Bros were regarded as insane
To mental blindness, they gave cane
By the Almighty, Sun was invented
By Sun, darkness is circumvented
By prayer, agonies are prevented
By sweat, our victories are augmented.
mvvenkataraman
Jan 5, 2014
Jan 5, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
I found myself missing you the other day,
So I made you a little figurine
Out of clay.
It was a little soldier, his sword drawn in
Triumph.
It was just the type of thing I knew
You would enjoy.
You could put it on your bed-side table.
I painted it to match the color scheme of your
Bedroom.
I know you told me never to give you anything,
Since you knew you would feel the need to
Reciprocate.
And I remember how you said you hate doing that,
For fear of rejection, perhaps.
Your pride is inconceivably fragile.
I felt this the moment before we
First kissed.
You stood stoically, waiting for
Me
to move closer.
Waiting for
Me
To initiate.
So I did.
Months pass by,
And I figure that giving you my little soldier,
A tangible token of my affections,
Could serve as a similar
Initiation.
Because really,
It is far too late to prevent me from giving you anything.
Such pride-salvaging boundaries are impractical when
I have already given you the most
Intimate part of
Me.
It was merely my body’s warmth, at first.
A throbbing desire,
A muscle spasm,
A rapturous aftershock,
And then, unwittingly,
Those things transcended flesh,
Becoming the reality of my
Soul.
So you see,
You have already given me more than you
Intended, either.
And I just needed to give you something palpable,
So you could see me, and touch a piece of me
Even when I was away.
Because I was hoping that you were missing me
Too.
Until this morning,
When I clumsily knocked my little figurine
Off of the kitchen counter.
All I have to give you now,
Is in dozens of
Irreparable pieces.
So I am inclined to believe
That the reality you kindled
Within my soul,
Was too fragile and too fleeting
To be
Initiated
In your own.
I picked up the shards
Of clay, and
Cried in regret.
Knowing that you would really have loved what I
Made for you,
Had you ever gotten the chance
To see it.
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 11:55 AM UTC
Sparks fly from the flint crushing as you raise your brow
marveling away over which rock you’d rather be
I smile, ponder, then laugh at you, in opted denial
it’s what you've always been, what I control being
a diplomatic ball of ice on flames, with an aura a disarray
is it us portraying them in grayscale, chin hanging in the air
knowing what we know and pretending to not, yet care
queerly scared of change but so sure of getting tired
merging and shattering, perpetually deemed on trial
and then there exists, at the dawn of my memories
your shadow across the bed, lighting up a cigarette
its smoke, my first reminder of your existence
trying to clasp on to the awry black creases on the wall
as they wrap me into the oblivion of your arms
now it seldom melts at the genial contact of your voice
reckon it might not become hard on being choused
the beautiful black creases have dissolved through my fingers
it has been conned to stay stoically un-aroused.
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
*Death drives fast in stolen car
Pursued en mass by cops afar
Down motorway of he and she
Who drive in innocence, legally.
Colliding in cascading mess
Of debris, dust and huge distress.
Face down upon the tarmac now
Handcuffed with glock at bleeding brow.*
Whilst winding through a country glade
An opulence of deep, green shade,
A confluence of peace and quiet
Where nature’s art, in beauty, riot,
Where squirrels dart and rabbits munch
In turquoise grasses, lush, for lunch,
And sunspots sparkle in the shade
This place where poetry is made.
*Juxtaposed, the concrete hash
Where ranting politician’s clash,
Where each, determined to be right
Adopts inflexibility's fight,
To hold to ransom common sense
Whilst seated stoically on the fence,
Committing all to farce and pain
Whilst pointing to another’s blame.*
White waves wash the pristine sand
Where in Bermuda shorts, I stand,
Soaking up the tropic sun
In holiday, now just begun,
Far out I see a distant sail
Which tells a fascinating tale
Of opalescent crystal seas
Caressed by mystic scented breeze.
*Juxtaposed, is terrors threat
Caste worldwide through Islam’s net,
Despite the protestations made
By Clerics, genuine, dismayed,
Permeated far and wide
Through violent death’s perverted pride.
Causing misery obscene
Whilst rinsing hands in blood till clean.*
Hark, a lark on yonder hill
It’s song, so clear, enduring till
It ends in silence… so pristine,
That tears stream down my face, so lean
And gaunt, so filled with joy am I
With gift of lark song sung to sky,
A gift, so sweet and clean and pure
If juxtaposed, it will endure.
Marshalg
Portraiture of my yin & yan in this day.
4 October 2013
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
It was in a musky instrument shop
that I found myself hungry, so hungry.
I didn't know any Russian.
I told the old cashier,
a small woman with a brown bun-top,
that I'd really like some food.
She cocked her head,
shook off the dust, and jarbled back at me.
"Please," said I, as dough-eyed as one could muster.
She pointed to the door.
My belly grumbled.
I fell away sideways, walking out all lowly-like.
I began through the doorway
and the shopkeeper woman screeched.
I heard a moan come from above me.
There stood a 9-foot-tall, Slavic boy,
plagued with acne, hooked nose, and sallow cheeks,
with a metal clamp around his neck, right next to the door frame.
I thought he was drapes, ragged window drapes,
but he existed there and then with hands the size of cantaloupes.
The shop keeper whined and pointed at the boy.
I looked up at him,
and he, down at me.
She spat into a tissue and then shooed me again.
I grabbed his chain off its hook
and stoically proceeded out the door.
The boy dragged his feet behind me, begging and crying.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 2:04 PM UTC
SURELY A REFLECTIVE TRUTH
By Poor Richard’s Son © September 2013
How certain-there appeared whispered pronouncements which proclaimed the utter emptiness of his lonely state. Such a place where he dwelled, propped upright by an inherent absence of self-knowledge that fleetingly explained and defined his reality. A whispering reality, it seemed, that cried out to the god of raw truths regarding bitter human nature and yet, a sublime presence presented by all he would ever encounter.
An unsettling serenity tasted of a sweet and sour paradox of which he was possessed, captured by the strangely beatific attraction that lay deep within all things grotesque. Astonishingly, flotillas of startling enigma had emerged from within his memories of youth. They came, flowing with the bitter tide of unfulfilled promise. For always there existed a rather twisted reality. And that was all he really had; a sojourn through the veil of an eternal gratitude which had not served him very well at all.
Thus, he quietly peered thru the windows of his pristine prison-once more reaching without reason for yet another promise unfulfilled. There, he stoically stood as a monument to reaching after the unreachable, standing there, halfway through this trial by fire-on his way toward a collision course with failure perhaps, vetted to try once more to survive this proving ground of academic acceptance.
His participation was a living testament to the folly which only the fool would ever really know. Yes, he knew all too well the absolute denial of his ongoing failure to thrive, a failure fueled by the utter blindness that befalls those with the purest of faith. A faith that one fine day his ship would finally roll into the bay; success would surely be within his grasp at last .
So passionately he watched the desolate streets outside the college, through the immaculate window like a tiger in the rain, knowing the thunder and lightning he can’t explain…can never contain…could never retain.
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
Petals fall, wheels roll
How swift is the flight of time
Lifting the veil of my translucent memory
The past comes alive with a rare fragrance
Don’t you remember the very first time
We saw each other on a Christmas Eve
Amid gazing eyes, we stood embarrassed
As Time, like an unsteady toddler
Crawled away on hands and legs
How we simply stared at each other
Unable to commune our thoughts in lucid words,
Later in the ripe moment,
When we solemnly held our hands
How dazed we were by that electric touch
Memories so green linger my dear
As though it all happened just days ago
With all the fervor of our young hearts
We were pledged to explore life
Youth and hope then walked hand in hand
Warm blood flowed through every capillary and vein
And life glowed in gleams of golden light
We were lifted upon wings of love
From the terrestrial plain unto heaven’s heights
Days flew, months into years fled
Amid gusts of laughter and of tears
How the stairs of life we climbed
Through what labyrinthine paths we traveled
Posing undecided on turns and curves
But holding fast and never loosening our grip
In the ripe season how thoughtfully
Had we sown the seeds of love
Watering them with our saline tears
How excitedly we watched them sprout and grow
Memories so green linger my dear
As though it all happened just days ago
I feel the years have flown too fast
Now life’s fire is almost extinguished
Somber shadows darken our track
The night ahead is darker and colder
We have to accept the in eluctability of it
Doting on the past is now our pleasure
When we look back, we see the thrill of victory
And the tears of defeat and heartbreak
Life presented us with a mixed bag
We have watched the death of spring
We have bore the heat of summer,
Seen the leaves drop in the mellowing autumn
And the chilly shroud of winter is about to veil
Without revolt, let us accept the truth
But till Death do us part, Oh my Love,
Let us hold our hands together
And stoically wait for the final sunset!
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 7:45 AM UTC