This lost poet breathes hard
His hand shakes, quivers.
The page beneath him
Fades in, fades out,
A sad reminder of faded mem'ries.
Cold mist descends over this warm heart
And the bright light hazes
In a gloom of lost things.
The dark road running past this window
Was once shaded by happy oaks
And lined by gerber daisies.
The trees are now skeletal remains,
Petrified tombstones for floral ashes.
The road, once smooth and long,
Now riddled with holes
Now obstructed with blood.
Is that the end in sight?
His gaze dwindles
In a gloom of lost things.