To the Unmourned

When we grow old
We become either poems or myths.
We should never become crystal tears
or broken pieces of heaven
or prospects of ignorant bliss.
Were we not true to our own souls,
to the choices we had
and the chances we missed,
We’d regret more, 
we'd forget the last 
instead of the least
and remember its tragic core.
If it were just for me, 
In times like these
of constant sorrow 
(but such due grief)
the seeds of doubt would replace only
the sour fruit of deceit
and they would feel, 
without filling,
its most fragrant void.
One last pledge be made, 
one solemn truth to admit
and be told
I once passed an olive branch to a man
then let the sun go down
on his faith 
and maybe his love,
after promising him the moon. 
I am sure what they say is all real
that the healing was in his pain
like some whispers are 
in the summer wind
So the echoes I’d hear
Were the fears we’d breathed'n before
And they weren’t in vain.
You see, as youngsters 
to rush into dead ends.
And as we grow older,
We promise ourselves we shall be poetry
and that we shall remember the white of the snow,
those walks against those crimson-red sunsets
that measured our heartrate
and hope we shall cherish
the hours we don’t regret.
Let’s say it together- youandme
before we are too old!!!
As long as we both shall live
We are two revenants without sin,
Two mourners a half-lifetime away, 
the unbaptised stars above
and maybe a gentle morning breeze
guiding us both into oblivion.