Kiss of Time
Gone are the splendours of simplicity
when youth and innocence did life portend;
now my days are filled by complexity
and sweet utopian dreaming at an end.
I am not a man forgiven to sin
nor a charmed fool to empirical love;
truly without I feel the heart within
and each sobered thought this reminds me of.
Desolating are the dysmorphic years -
its conscious slow death; its visceral grief
that stole from me all my wonderful cares
and fled into the shadows like a thief.
Dead is the soul that lives but knows not how,
and cold the kiss of time upon his brow.
Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014