COMING,

to me, is no longer what it used to be, getting there.

Leisure, pleasure, walks into a forest fresh with delight.

Feeling the grass beneath, the sky, the leaves above.

Fully enjoying the time from dusk, to the rays of dawn,

from the shadows of darkest night to days first light.

 

COMING,

to me, is no longer what it used to be, getting there.

For time has taken away, has killed time to indulge.

Leaving, only little pieces, of moments, for full delight

from this runaway train, booking it down a decline.

Its brakes no longer controlled by old hands

in these physical and psychological lands.

COMING,

to me, is no longer what it used to be, getting there.

No longer miles a head, lies a station of destination.

I envision it, I want to reach it, I remember it so well.

All the water towers have fallen, long ago turned to dust.

For this old engine, all its steam escapes through the rust

long before it can produce a head of steam allowing it reach

that longed for, elusive, desired awaiting station.

COMING,

to me, is no longer what it used to be, getting there.

It was once, the last place that I wanted to be going.

It still is !, but I have to wonder ?, is memory showing

me reality or is it all but a fantasy of this old mind

searching fragments of the past only to see, to find

that I desire more than what came before - unkind

is fate, is memory – these new experiences, if this be so

and there is no one to say, what will I truly know ?

 

( B. J. “A ” 2 )

May 3^rd  2006