Photo by Reha Paşa from Pexels
A Red Train speeds down rails of memory
From Western Ridge, as far as mind can see.
I’m yours, I was, I breathed a hundred times
As bodies touched and sand became the floor.
We’ll never part, and now the time is nigh
Our measured lives against the way we made.
Could we have blazed a braver path of it?
A firmer grasp? A longer lasting call?
‘Tis mind and hand and skin and body weight
Consumed pursuing what we could not win.
The Fate of things. The destiny. The Fall.
The Thursdays into Tuesdays, and the Sunday skies.
Give Thanks, I do, for pieces of the might-have-been.
Give what respect we can to truth and lies.
Give prayer for pains we caused and could not heal.
Give words. Give words. And all.