Too Late, They Say

Too Late, They Say

 

When is it too late? Some say when you're

too old. When the years behind you sum up

to more then the years ahead. When you

look at a clock ticking away, are you on

schedule for the passing of time itself? Are you

behind schedule for your death? Your life?

 

It is five in the morning now, and now

it is not. Can you pause time? Can you

reach into the sky and halt the Moon's

decent? Can you grip the stone of the

Earth and sill it's rotation? Can you snuff

out the Sun, to cause eternal darkness?

 

If we cannot control the passing of time,

how are we to judge it? Who are we to tell

time that it has caused us grief over our

undone works? Our undone good deeds?

Too late, they say to achieve dreams turned

ambitions. Weakness and fear, I say, that

causes they to stop and cast judgment

over that which they have no control.

 



My Friend

My Friend

 

Lament is my companion, my friend

 Love, a passing yet lasting burden.

I have loved, I have seen the smile

that forged a beating heart from steal.

I know it to this day, that love that aches,

that burns and boils. That love

that goes unpublished therefore unreturned.

 

Lament is my companion, my friend.

I have looked into eyes that grinned,

that knew my core. They

never saw my shame, my sorrow at

having lost their daily glimpse. They

never saw the sting brought on

by knowing their beauty no more.

 

Lament is my companion, my friend.

I have heard the sound of beauty,

a voice cherished. The spoken word

had never known such prestige, such

guiding elegance. A dance of tone and rhythm

never to be heard again. Not by me; no

more music for my heart to dance to.

 

Lament is my companion, my friend.

Absence is all that is left; no more

warmth of contact, of convergence. Within,

the burning love a pyre of anguish. Without, the

body aches will the chilled bite of regret

upon every sight, upon every sound,

upon every thought.