Poem By kendall thomas
Soft the music of the lute played by a tongue less wonder.
A lament heard from afar strummed on spider webs for our
brief descent. The ageless trees seem posed to catch the
returning footfalls of some vanished love. Yet, like
fleeting melodies that drift upon the wind, that which once
is gone never comes again. Janus like, you strive in vain
to hold the reigns of time. Plaything of the gods. Poor
puppet, puppet. You clench your fist around the wind, but
the wind moves on. Stare into some ancient mirror. How
many have? How many gone? Once, full breathing life, they
cast their shadows on the ground, laughing with their
friends as this wheel turned round. Where are they now?