06 November, 2005

Charon In The Afternoon

It is none of it real
In the sense that it was someone's thought first
and didn't spring whole from earth and rain.
It is made as we are all made--from thirst
For Joy and the hope of the Continual Same.
It works as we all work for money. To redeem
Time from entropy buying back the breeze

Oh how we hoped for summer days with sun
And the children that we should have been with the ease
We did not remember having.

I rode this boat with you when you were not you
When my dreams were for the tomorrows
And not of the yesterdays and Death
Was only a place I met once in a blanket.

I am a poor poet, rolled trousers do not suit me
And the angels I know are all talk. Slainte Mhath


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