The meal now is cooked Bob.
From now on, the fire would only ruin your meal
and flames would dance like smog
on the blight of your mirror.
It is gone now
when time was so brimful of future and anticipation,
when
there was always the hope of spring,
upon the crest of autumnal blasts,
where
the roads were the emanation of the light cities,
rays,
erupting out of the incandescence expands,
It is gone when
the texture of night was from silk, zephyr and stars
and winds
were from the stroke of faraway,
like the breath of beloved,
on your skin.
It is gone when life was adolescent,
an ambrosial zest,
a fruit
hovering from the neighbour’s bough of seducement,
juicy, though
never really yours,
reminding you that in the first bite
until there is no more.
Now
the apples of our eyes are wizened
with wisdom.
Glares dimming,
giving in to the gravity of their exigency.
The branches all bow to the ground
from the exertion of their love
for another run,
to cycle
their continuity.
