With High Hopes for the Future

In passing ages,

fingers begin to wither,

and a grasp that once was dependable spirals from youth.


Silently slipping through a widening leak,

the images chosen to keep are drained of luster.

Committed to conscious fabric,

we’re forever acquainted with the reality of decay;

that without a talisman’s guide,

our past eyes are a victim of the march of time.

The un-killed mockingbird makes mockery of any mind,

for creative and unimaginative collapse no differently.

Less than an empty shell is a lasting legacy

that diminishes achievement and adoration in equal measure.


Swear on a thought.

Swear on a moment.

Swear on never losing sight years from now.

Swear for remembrance.

Swear to maintain.

Sweat to forget that forgetting commences.


Stray smiles and fleeting glances fail to pass decade markers.

The small things taught to be appreciated are but faded scribblings.

The un-killed mockingbird makes mockery of memory,

leaving no glamor in passing,

only a lesson in our volatile flesh,

and that we’ve yet to realize the hands we’ll lose touch of,

though it may still be in a palm;

the embraces we’ll sacrifice the sensation of

even when in their midst.


In passing ages,

fingers begin to wither,

and a loosening grasp disappears under soil.

( ❤ Mitch)

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