The Autumn of My 57th Year

Rshafran

Strange that, in this season of slow death

When ripeness over-blooms into decay,                    

I should feel a calm, an ease of breath

That proves elusive of a summer’s day.

A surer beauty rests in autumn’s gold,

For one whose golden hair has long gone gray,

Than profligate summer’s verdure can enfold, 

Or perfumed promises of spring convey.

 

Autumn is a season of repose,                                   

Reflection on what was and might have been,

Acceptance of what is at cycle’s close -

Entropic, certain winter, sovereign.

All enterprise exhausted, naught remains

Save yielding to the grasp of golden chains.

  • Author: Rshafran (Offline Offline)
  • Published: June 6th, 2017 09:05
  • Category: Reflection
  • Views: 29
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Comments +

Comments2

  • Goldfinch60

    Very good write. Welcome to MPS.

  • Gary Edward Geraci

    Well done; rich in diction, rhyme, and meter.



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