Memories
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Memories
Roam the fields while still young,
And consider the seed either bloom or weed.
And pick the one that flowers under the sun,
And see to your needs and not your greed,
To take to the grave before day expires,
And rest in peace with good memories.
Rose petals are soft to touch and smell sweet,
But the thorns prick the skin to bleed.
In my youth I was pugnacious,
And my smile was pretentious.
I was clever and now tout fini.
Bad memories are all I take with me.
Copyright © Dennis Spilchuk | Year Posted 2021
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