Quondam Days

When I look into those aged orbs, 

those eyes of cerulean antiquity 

I can almost feel those memories, 

what of quondam days. 

 

And all I have are pictures, grey, 

a scrapbook of bygone today's 

photographs of erstwhile friends 

gone away to make their amends. 

 

How age coalesces like every word said, 

every year a chapter and then, 

paragraphs the months 

and my minutes are my sentences 

and morals are my syntax, 

and the way I say it 

is the language of my life. 

 

And when I look into those aged orbs, 

that have spoken more and are worth the words, 

proffer to me your parlance, please, 

oh, what of quondam days indeed!