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.
