Like wine,
these older days
are vintage
Aging,
as each days number
declines
Ripe
in the tannin
of what remains
Rich
in the sweetness
of time now past
The vines
to wither
—in memory lost
(The New Room: May, 2021)
Period End
Running away
from the impossible...
Truth,
the last thing that’s caught
(Dreamsleep: May, 2021)
-
Author:
Kurt Philip Behm (
Offline) - Published: May 27th, 2021 09:58
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 32
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments2
I'm not swimming within blinking eyes
of unshed tears, as I type these words...
no really, its just so breezy in-doors during summer
with my windows, tightly closed...
ahem!
(love, that mellow melancholic, feel
you've weaved within insightfully, loud
searchingly: incandescent Poetry!)
beautiful, truly..
thanks for sharing dear Poet
'in the tannin
of what remains'
'as each days number
declines'
'in the sweetness
of time now past'
'The vines
to wither'
'Rich
Like wine,
Ripe'
'—in memory lost'
Very kind again, thanks.
Kurt
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