Too Many Yesterdays
In what haunt hath hope,
he who in solitude,
weeps into soiled palms;
calloused by that labor
desolate of redemption.
Leathered and wrinkled
by ever so recent a passage
of too many yesterdays.
In what haunt hath hope
those tears shed in anguish
amidst gales unrelenting
which snatch at birth
and toss into oblivion.
Unmarked is the course
across age weary cheeks
drooping under the weight
of too many yesterdays.
O miserly fates
how hollow thy prize
no less, at so great a cost.
Greatness is lonely,
my soul for a kingdom
bartered so unwisely
from dust to ash
and the shimmering
to rust by the reckoning
of too many yesterdays.
In what haunt hath hope
such beggarly ilk
adorned in finery
beyond dreamscape lux.
Hidden under lavish raiment,
decay of the forsaken
lost even to themselves
in a calmly rippled wake
of too many yesterdays.
07/03/15
Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015
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