the words were like whispers in a silent solution.
louder than light.  stronger than faith.
borne on a wave with the smell of the ocean.
dying like epitaphs in the eyes of a wraith.

perhaps it is better that there be no more summers.
no more calliopes.  no more gavottes.
lessons too many are learned, and in the vespers
brought by the simple dreams, lost in the thoughts.

cherish the moment that passes too quickly.
pity the reticent, but do not mock his fate.
it is not the grass-trampled's own fault it is sickly.
but it withers by the seeding or recovers too late.

there will be answers to questions yet pondered,
riddles and rituals abounding in time.
there will yet be memories for those who once wondered.
there will still be a bottle of last summer's wine.

we live in a universe of iron and irony.
gentle reminders that strike us like stone.
we live in the shadows, waiting to be set free.
until the sun stops returning, and we wither, alone.


copyright William F. DeVault (wfdv)