We’re
never to sing, as sung, once our glory. Youth is
a
spacial tease, filled with acrimony; and we love her,
scene
for scene, where life is speckled sorely. Its life
a
fantasy, a silken-tie ruined, cracking a pomegranate.
A
man cringes, a bleeding phone, teeming with
anguish;
for clocks chide, a grandfather soul, mourning
for
youth.
I
appear again, probing a mirror, familiar with
something
vague. It’s more a tuxedo, a self veiled—to
peak
through tears. Decades speak a stranger, if
unattended,
a midnight encounter. I watch to witness,
alive
with tremors, to channel forbidden light.
We’re
never to sing, as sung, once our glory; for we
grow,
a vision long passed, cleaving to something new.
Life
becomes a thought, seared through actions,
peering
into our futures. Love becomes reason, to
gallop
eternal—staring into prophecy.
