That gusto, that virulent life that once we were, in older age stirs. Not all we were, but acceptance for the winds that blow and change that takes us to realms not thought must be. And in that easing from fierce gaols and demanding plights, we must adjust and believe what we have done, will not haunt our dreams as incomplete. Hope you relate to this outpouring…
But Still, I Have the Memories
We fall like stones from a discarded wall,
dusted mortar and weather-prone, once
a virulent thought in practice,
now a crumbling waste.
Dry without cohesion, out of season
we rest upon laurels once graced,
yet some sympathy from the harsh sun,
a crisp ending to a meaning done.
Outmoded we, perhaps destiny
that we stand in a futile hold
of yesterday’s control and flail
like a man drowning in dark sorrow.
And black clouds amass
around our weathered peaks,
fallen purpose and balance breached
as we stand in crusted relief of time’s will.
Time marks season’s change,
and also a man’s resonant cycles,
purpose, meaning and roles dispatched
to a wasteland where no such theme exists.
Age in tempest flow
robs us of what once was known,
and fall we do as crusted dry remnants
of what we were when intentions ruled,
and we were fuelled to achieve.
Now, winds prevail,
give flight to past mistakes,
as we stand reminiscent of the walls we were,
now sand upon a desert floor.
But still, I have the memories,
what I was and once believed,
in pallid form as whiskers replace
a smooth-skinned face,
a stark mirror reprieve.
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