My light has slip'd by on a song outworn-- Silent requiem full of empty notes. I struggle to accept the nonreturn, Clutching my coin in wait of Charon's boat.
In lonely tears of puddles clear have I Bemoaned the craft of lines that drew my life. I track the time in father's face and sigh. I watch the artist with his seasoned knife. The crushing sight of his decay, it bleeds. I know alone I ride the spring tide high. Only years do see my separation seed. O' aging hand might I humbly ask 'why?' From out of the depths and down once again, Is life but always a soul in a pen?
-MMF
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