I'm in a poetic mood and rifling thru old notebooks...here is one of mine, randomly selected.
Veins streaming through this place (cold
As ice) where once a garden grew
And embraced the sunshine and told
Stories of old and young to the moon
As he sung.
The young blood sweeps old truth
Under the rug (in their naïve
Sense of justice) and lays hold of today's
Word while it is today, for tomorrow
Will have a new word (and both are
Amazingly accepted, validated in the
Blooming insanity).
You there, with your nose turned up,
Haven't they told you the band has gone,
The show is over, the spotlights dimmed?
Seasonal joy never lasts, my friend.
Go looking for it behind the curtain and
You'll understand.
What once was beautiful is only beautiful in
The land of memories--if you can get there.
Take care, young ones. Do not miss the
Possibility of old joys found by digging up
The aged treasure.
Wisdom is yours for the taking if you can
Locate it among the many gemstones
Disguised as hard lessons.
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