To My Lonely Friend
Bright booked memory mumbles
liquid tumble picked
in the subtle undulation,
of perhaps ourself: that we would see
knelt in justified reflection
of the ego's beatific truth.
For who really lays out youth,
if not in what we un-recall.
Or not call to mind, as if in sign
of love lost lightly, when later
love takes wings, to lift beyond
the petty things we lived to forget.
Beset with fear of what may come
we tack the winds of hope and pain,
watching not the wake
of shapeless oceans sliding by.
So why cry? For that time,
in idle wrinkled age's stare.
There it is not. Nor shall be
though we hear gurgled voice authentic,
see the bright dancing past.
It will not last unless hard grasped
to the sickly heart's desire
to once more be part, of that
spring-legged day: not here.