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Poem

Withered leafless trees
Clinging to old roots
Sway fearful of the wind,
Murmuring among themselves 
With dull nonsense
About the rains.

The doltish deceive themselves 
That winter is a prelude to the Spring.
Have they ever learned the truth
Or have they read the timeless lie
And believed it true.

Summer is its own season
Stirring the soul with its light.
The earth fragrant with decay,
Blooming as if blanched with treason.
For the buds are flowering
Now, readying for the blight.

In the beginning the end
Wasn't written, hope survived
And the brief flickering light
Held promises even in its youth 
As the dead clay thickened
About the truth.

Yet so many perish,
Lost in the dimming of the light.
Even as they flower they fade,
Eunuchs to the possibilities.
Marching to the tune of 
Vacant wisdom from old men 
Who know nothing but 
The silence of their thoughts
And the stillness of their minds.

Thus as the flames, leaping
Down the seasons and the years collide 
Leave fragments that spark even the deadest eyes
I see in each face the hollow minds
And the terror behind those 
Glowering facades.

The trees, in the twilight born
Among the wilderness of dead leaves
On rocky soil and outcrops of stone
Grow sickly silent as their futures, shorn
Of promises they can't beget.
And the coming years stored only with regret.

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