Pages From Decrepit Seasons

Before midnight ticks, I turn to my interior world , One that cradles myrhh of reminisces and sagas, Allowing breaths to inhale the agony and radiance of loved ones' trails now beyond my physical reach-- Watching the decrepit portraits on the foyer, July air greets the dew on blossoms, monarchs flitting in my yard then fading softly in the shade-- reminding me how age- torn, tattered past seasons have turned this manor down I am stilled by the rustle from maples breathing as if their whiffs understand my untold ancestry... Perhaps, I am getting old, or maybe wise enough to scrape my pen amid bundled journals, unearthed by many vintage pages still to come. And go.