A poem
I plucked a crimson rose, that lay
in shreds of pain to hide the ashen gloom.
The future holds the counted years,
no resurrection for the old.
That cloth of gold, the rare brocade, enfolding fingers
that dusk has yet to craft shadows for,
and mirrors that reflect the strife within
echo whispers carried on the air.
A turbulent sea mocks my grief.
A lonely shore, waves in timeless rhythm
play a mournful tune, beneath drifting clouds.
Final rays paint the sky
as day fades
in the endless cycle of light and dark.
This sliver of sand holds imprints
of feet, soon to be erased,
and a sea breeze carries fragments of memories,
voices of the past.
Shifting sands, impermanent and ever changing,
are restless beneath me,
as I stand alone,
luminous in the violet dusk,
just empty chaff, winnowed and scattered.
The only sound from me echoes
the exhalation of the wind.