Monday, June 5, 2017

we lose so much

What of love, a child might ask
In a city rebuilt by the wind
Laying new foundations becomes a repetitive task
The hearts of the citizens on the mend

What of pity, a man may say
A glare in the corner of his eye
Every hour he spends each passing day
Worried what may come out as a lie

What of life, a person contemplates
From the floor of the corner cafe
Scrolling through their phone for perspective dates
I will see you later, they do not say

What of death, the roses frost over
Funerals take on a a humble tone
This is not how we dreamed we would prosper
Every person rushing to not die alone. 

1 comment:

  1. I am moving. I am sorry, I don't want to lose touch with you. I am sending a letter to your PO box, but don't know if it will be forwarded. I am so sorry - time just slipped past.

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