Echoes of November (Originally Published July 2010 in “From the Well House”)

When the dark night falls ashen on the curtails of our dreams,
It is with simplified understanding of the haste in which we live.
What is this furious passion, quick and object-oriented,
Where do we draw the line between the needs of self and obligation to give?

In these sighing nights and the moments before we sleep,
We cannot relax, no way to drink in the day and seek reprieve.
You’re never too old, and it’s never too late,
No matter what you say or in your mind, silently deceive.

The dreams you have, these words you speak, these thoughts in your mind,
The sweet abandon of a summer lost, and the wayward souls of the dearly departed.
During what restless un-slumber do we saunter through this life unfulfilled,
Sleep walking, dreaming, toiling, and never taking the time, life never started.

You choose these paths among the rows of books and cobwebs in your mind,
You choose whether or not to believe that you can find room in your planetary stay.
It’s never that you’re too old, and it’s never too late,
There’s fear in your heart and dreams in your face, passed over for just one more day.

The world begs and beckons us onward, further, frightened for loss of status quo,
We build and burn, collect and squander, develop and undo, dream and lack of changing will.
The path to wealth is paved in almost certain disappointment, gleaned free of dreams,
As life winds forward into a career and dream, did you follow those reasons or ignore them still?

Your life, and your sons and daughters now, wavering still on the brink of repetition,
Failing to acknowledge the mistakes of a life lived with supposed impunity to your dreams.
You heart tells you that it’s getting old, and you mind tells you as yet… it’s not too late,
You keep life busy, full of soccer games and laborious work, all while your inner child screams.

The dawning morning of a later life, the weakness of brittle bone and sullen thought,
The children of yours, children no longer, they continue the toiling cycle and so it goes.
The world has become smaller now, able to travel less day by day, muscles weak and harsh,
The short glimmers of the hope of childhood dreams forgotten amidst the aging echoes.

Your dusk is coming soon and darkness sweeps across the landscape of your life,
Your body weakened and unable, both laboriously and indignant, falls silently to bed,
It’s absolutely now, that you’re too old, you now know, that it’s too late.
Your heart is no longer crying, no there’s no energy for that, the futile loss of the dead.

The silence of the night stirs the sullen ash of lives gone by burned brightly,
Brightly in haste and toil, demanded and strongly used, without regard to self.
These are the passions of the world, the objectivity or lack thereof, of our nature,
Where truly all our hopes and dreams, life ambitions, only abide on the dark empty shelf.

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