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 
there's
this 
tendency

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.