Time is no longer counted on fingers,
the ancient one has come home to roost.
Amidst dying embers and fading light,
candles flicker in the window still.
It is not the way of man
to accept such things so easily.
He cherishes youth and vigor,
and agonizes the passing of years.
Disregarding wisdom, despising the
mirror, while cursing his own vanity.
The hearth grows cold. Soot and ashes
linger as dreams die with the flames.
Aligned between two visions
of reality and desire, glazed eyes
stare down an uncertain path,
haunted by vague emotions.
The persistence of unanswered
questions flood sleepless nights,
mocking our existence. Memories
curled up on the floor of time invade.
The distance closes in.
Footsteps soften as he nears.
Counting done,
the guardian closes the gate.
Grey Sparrow Journal 