To where did it flee, the golden time,
it came in generous flame,
heating hearth of heart, in opulence shared,
the shimmering raiment of feeling kept,
warming; dawn swallowed like a drug,
with twilight plateaus and midnight peaks.
Where did it go, clarity devoured whole,
and a kind of madness ensued,
drifting through wayward delirium,
burying dead thought along the way,
now at mile stones we dig up graves;
study subconscious bones,
don’t want to be slaves.
Where did the golden time go,
still with you blind child,
open eyes, live, breathe, fly;
later, much later, die...
and be standing stone of golden times.
©David Nickle Read 2015
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Copyright © David Nickle Read