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Poem

Mourn not till the embers fade,
Till the blasphemous time forces us on our way.
Mourn not what is dying
But treasure instead what it created.
Listen to how the gulls cry;
They don’t mourn for our passing.
The littering fragments we left behind 
Will continue to rise and fall with the wind,
Dance and rejoice in the ringing bells.
Exhale.
Feel the tender breeze soften around us
Like falling feathers and marshmallows.
May our muddied footprints be forever plastered onto the path,
A deposit of completed childhoods.
How long ago were we last showered in gold or mahogany?
Last felt the tendrils of snow melting on our hands?
We could’ve never known that that was it.
The final time.
The final pen stroke on our final essay.
Overhead a helicopter cuts nonchalantly through the air,
Oblivious to the smouldering fires beneath
But till the embers fade to ash,
Memories will rejuvenate the flames.

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