For Tomorrow
Colored wings and tufts
of upturned grass that
fold under bare feet;
Summer's smells and
all the things imagined
more than felt; We
grow up, grow old,
grow silent, and
we don't dream
for tomorrow
anymore.
In one
bittersweet
assurance,
We will be mourned.
Flea Market
Parched breaths spoke silence,
lightly labored in the morning air.
Wrinkled hands tilled usefulness
and the old man shuffled forth.
All around, tables shelving wares
long depreciated by plodding time.
He whispered a secret, then,
as he brushed long fingers over
trinkets by his thigh. He said,
"You are older than all this,
but only these remember."
Pursed lips curved about in
his knowing wisdom and
I moved away with
thoughtful
steps.
Without Calm, Regret
Without calm, poise abdicates
To chaos wrapped in the cool
Wind's brisk biding, all
Tethered breaths not abating
Goosebumps as they drift.
I am solemn, and shall remain
On one pallid watch, searching
Each day with whatever
Mind such anxiety affords
The hurried hours.
They haunt with echoes,
Slithering around me to
Prick my skin in passing.
Regret is not outlived,
Just as stark monuments
Herald glory from the past
For all centuries' eyes.
There is no forgiveness
For what hate never leaves.
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