© Steve King
All rights
reserved
Gazing out on
fast converging lines
whose genesis pulls
faintly, far behind,
the mind does
concentrate, as the sage said,
though what it
notes shall soon be as unread.
The dreams still
linger where old wishes lead,
while new
desires displace comforting needs;
each blackened
ember dims the soul’s delight,
to conjure forth
a darker appetite.
But age may not
be mended nor foretold,
and as I watch these closing scenes unfold,
I hope that I
may, at least privately,
relinquish some
few public vanities,
abandoning rich
things that never were,
and cleave to
small ones, as they shall occur.
A new poem for the Poetry
Pantry
