Eulogy: Quatre (Visages)

It’s said, like wine, that poets grow best with age
The freshest bud of spring we pass on by
We think its promise, nay its purity
Is one – unto itself has formed its cage

Like thorns upon a rosy vine, surround
the fruit that man before our hallowed times
have trod; the leaves he leaves till autumn chimes
forgotten, strewn asunder, sunk to ground

How earthly fragrances may touch our tongue
How much has time worn on this glory year
However long our bodies fill with cheer
One toast, après, our end becomes unstrung

For auld acquaintance all alone, alas,
forgotten, missed; a pint, a moment passed.


Also titled: Love, Lust, Loss, Lachrymae


About jfkwt

A little person on a little island in a little planet

Posted on August 5, 2014, in Life, Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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