Strange to be left
in a heap of
gathered, russet
autumnal leaves.
The story has no end;
interminable time,
but as we leave,
becoming coarse & brittle; dead,
new, green buds grow where we
once were;
soon to flower,
rich in colour,
not yet faded
or distorted
by time.
If I was once a jewel-like flower, rich
& transient,
am I less lovely now that I am gone?
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Author:
rebmasters (
Offline) - Published: July 14th, 2021 03:38
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 54
- Users favorite of this poem: dusk arising, A Boy With Roses.
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Comments2
This is quite beautiful. Although I cannot answer the question posed. It is full of ripeness of life in it's asking.
The more I read it the more I like it, it has to go into my favourites.
Aw thank you. I was trying to convey that change isn't always bad and there's no real endings etc etc. I'm glad you liked it x
Food to ponder on this tribute to how life is passed on when fade becomes change. I really agree that there are no endings.
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