The setting sun is softening the edges
And, suddenly, we don't have time anymore
So many years spent looking forward
Now just looking back at closed doors;
The days when we sprung like the lark
With gloom thrown in the bin
Now just collecting dusty books to put on a shelf
Old photographs in a toffee tin;
Morning freshness passes me by
The race to the night is where I go
Legs that ran a million miles
The sun rises but I stay low;
Where do we go from here
Is every breath the last
Those old photographs don't lie
Everything is in the past.
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Author:
Paul Gerard Reed (
Offline) - Published: April 14th, 2025 13:35
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
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Comments2
A most nostalgic poem of memories and the past. Well written in good rhyme and meter well done.
This poem has a nostalgic but also slightly melancholic feeling to it. The melody of memory is interwoven in the lines, I enjoyed the read!
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