My Musical
A reflection
Is that enquiry
That touches
Our past
My wintered rose
As centered
My prose
Life
My splinter
As the mist rose
The path taken
The path of that
No often chose
And in the ending
I say goodbye
To those
Whom greet me
“Hello”
The cure
A smoothly
Moved cello
Snow flakes
On days
It doesn’t mist
The spectacles
That un-flower
Within
My fist
The seasons
Of my life
With told
From an
Hour hand
Symptoms
Of a glass
That fragilely
Stands
Tragedy
The treasure
Abroad
Our collapsing
Days
Copyright © Jerry Golden | Year Posted 2008
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