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The New Age

It was a long time ago, long before I could know

Of obsolescence

Ancestry; old books with stories that now collect dust

Of romance and history, once new with gleeful shine turned to rust

Quieted, berries of passion red, saddened blue

They will say the golden times had every hue 

Knitted and depicted on inwrought tapestries for you

To remember

Old letters as reminders, the ink has settled where it once ran 

As souls do when they have found their peace long after their laughter

Old photographs of places and people that no longer stand

Put in cardboard boxes in the attic to never be seen after 

Along with lovingly knitted sweaters that now belong to nobody 

With no one left to answer back to an impromptu 


I love you

The windows we run to have an e-mail, no more rocks or Juliette 

Or night time runaways who whisper sweetly in secret

The amazons we explore for thrills give us knitted sweaters

With no love… and no place to really go in gloomy weather

No meaning, n’or past or future it can hardly be a present

When we pull the plug, there will be nothing that remains

Of our lives or anything we’ve touched


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Categories: poetry Prose

Tagged as:

The Sad Owl

I'm just here. Until I'm not.

2 replies

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