Speaking quite frankly, I must say,
The burden of time grows heavier each day.
Reason stares cruelly, but I can only view blankly.
Growing angrier, shortsighted, and cranky.
In the past three hundred and sixty-five days,
Each moment seems to bestow the weight that stays.
Tasks pile up, deadlines loom,
Tick-tock of the clock as impending doom.
Days turn to weeks, weeks turn to months,
And before I realize it, another year confronts.
I cannot escape it, no matter how I try.
The burden of time only multiplies.
My youth is long gone, never to return.
Anile age creeps in, and I start to yearn.
For the days when time seemed to fly by,
When life was simple, I didn't need to try.
But now, with each passing moment, I feel the strain.
The weight of my responsibilities drives me insane.
Categories:
anile, analogy, bereavement, endurance, how
Form: Rhyme
Strains are carefully prevented with a tangle.
Were you eager for me to return to my angle?
It restored its fiery vigor due to the treble hook.
As a result, I wiggle akin a fish in the hope of a look.
In this yet another piece, rusty tones overrule.
On a grimy patio, a rusted-out rock bewails.
Your deft touch lashed a pale face balky.
Worries that don't seem to act away quickly.
Your anile escape boots are no longer active.
There was a recent rise of a rich perspective.
A pair of delicate slippers were subtly conveyed.
It's two sizes vaster and boasts a range-wide.
The earthy angst of your cramped spine.
Waning whine faded by a support divine.
Written: October 21, 2021
Categories:
anile, analogy, angst, anxiety, appreciation,
Form: Sonnet
I've ne'er beheld such a magnificent tree.
Only you were a ration of my life spree.
Your shadow splatters my scorching flesh.
Striving to restrain agony out of my thresh.
A tree that can bear both heat and downpour.
Hence, you ditched my futile and deceitful spore.
You typically offer me advice right away.
When I'm lost, you indicate for me the way.
Your plush pale coat screens me from worry.
Infers that it is plausible to opine fearlessly.
A capable tree of seeing remorse.
Beings pull vitality in the water source.
I gathered this fruit from your anile stem.
My key insight became crucial mayhem.
Only a subtle tree receives my praise.
As yet, I was sustained by a reckless craze.
I've not imagined a fully-fledged tree before.
Crafted with zeal and artistry at its exposed core.
Written: October 18, 2021
Categories:
anile, analogy, autumn, earth, emotions,
Form: Couplet
Tempest
A tempest rages darkly in my soul
Grief invades and disquiets solitude
The theories that I held once, now are crushed
Beneath the weight of loss and emptiness
These beliefs which allowed naiveté
To entertain ideals of joy throughout
Each storm that life can toss my way….
Well, no longer do I have such hope; no more
Deeply felt are hurts that lingered back
Among the fringes of distraction's ruse, where
I provided shelter for each trace of morose thought
But now that cover has been blown aloft
Wicked wind has buckled rigid walls
That so carefully constructed by me stood
By one great gust the sheen was stripped away
From pools of sorrow just beneath the skin
Now, ugly do they lie; these open wounds
They threaten to anile all peace and calm
For here, released from bonds of safe restraint,
The tempest rages free and thunders on
©Donna Golden
June 19, 2005
Categories:
anile, angst, confusion, depression, loss,
Form: Blank verse