Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

DROPLETS.

Expand Messages
  • Bernard d
    DROPLETS. Comes a time, though his mind remains willing, when desire, is for remembrance, not fulfilling. His body has slowed, now silvered, is his head, he
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 30, 2011
    View Source
    • 0 Attachment

                DROPLETS.

       

      Comes a time, though his mind remains willing,

      when desire, is for remembrance, not fulfilling.

      His body has slowed, now silvered, is his head,

      he knows more life lies astern, than lies ahead.

       

      Life's horizons cloister, a time now, to reflect…

      He curses past laxity, in analysis, circumspect.

      Memory's driven droplets, scurry, o'er a pane,

      upon the mind's window, is life relived again.

       

      Here and there, a silvered path lingers austere,

      as if latent gratitude sees it loath to disappear.

      The relationships of substance…not of chance,

      are gems mid the dross, of life's sordid expanse.

       

      Varied are memories charting of Life's progress,

      a strange melding, of staid prudence and excess.

      Languid paths of dalliance, so slowly converge,

      tenuous bonds to sever, when liabilities emerge.

       

      His mind dwells, firstly upon thoughts to enjoy,

      then recalls past sadness, depression, to employ.

      Congealed to teardrops pathways on life's pane,

      scurrying droplets merge and regroup yet again.

       

      Lacy patterns, mesmerize, or so, it might appear,

      faces, etched upon the pane are images too clear.

      Condemning faces, haunting specters, of disdain,

      wronged, used, cast off souls, he sees now again.

       

      They mouth silent curses, latent guilt, to invite,

      a vagabond once carefree, is sullen, and contrite.

      Indulgence's tapestry of obligations unfulfilled,

      brokers now repentance, sees the etching stilled,

       

      Thoughts review the fallacies, of material worth,

      Impropriety's rewarding, of Compassion's dearth.

      Youth's crassness, long, an accepted patent guise,

      nurtured, Indifference, all Sensitivity, to despise.

       

      The cavalcade resumes…Memory's demons rested,

      plague his guilty mind, over actions now detested.

      Meandering tracings from Life, he longs to revise,

      but tapestry, is woven, subject not, to compromise…

       

      ©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva…31 January 2011.

    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.