Days Are few.
Words
of the wise,
guidance
of age,
cannot shake
or sway what you
know to be true.
Rules
of the road,
gravity
itself,
in your youth
means nothing
to you.
Your whirling of dervishes, drunken and wild
in cathedrals where lost souls pray
come back to haunt you, in your reflections,
debt that you cannot re-pay.
Fields
of your days,
blazing
at night.
Calculate
what the flame
has consumed.
Seasons
that turn
render
barren reserves
in light of
golden harvest moons.
Now winter wind blows cold and curls round your neck
as your house echoes empty and still.
Shadows grow long, curtains are drawn
and embers are stirred in the chill.
Voice
of a childs’
ghost
on the trail
that leads
‘neath the snow
from the shore.
Steps
wandering,
circle
about,
across
the cold
forest floor.
If I could reach out across the divide
and deliver you safe on your way,
shake you and wake you, re-direct you
to’ve known what I know today.
Days Are Few
They spill from our hands like grains of sand
And fade from our distant view.
Days Are Few
Leaving no trace as we pass thru our days
stumbling after truth.
Days Are Few
Days Are Few
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