I remember Temple bells, ringing over village fields
As the evening drew close and slow
With cooking smoke hanging low
And first lights twinkling against the purple haze
And skies like bands of crimson fire
Burning with a quickened glow.
They rang both mournful, glad and ancient
Filled with timeless bittersweet
Like the sound of childrens' feet
Running across the morning floor into the future's arms;
So long ago, and far away-
The years into the past retreat.
I remember Christmastime, as it was before I lost
The precious magic of the child.
Innocence is meek and mild
And dies within the jaws of knowledge-
A greater good, but what a cost!
Sometimes
On a snowy night,
When feathery flakes come swirling down
And sounds are muffled, a quieter quiet
Then silence itself,
I almost reach the peace of make-believe;
But I remember every Christmas
That I would wish for Christmas eve...
I give to you my memories, pressed between the pages
And gilded by my heart's desire
The deck is stacked into a pyre; the Dealer burns a card.
To turn a knave or reckless king
Will spell the end of everything
And pit a full house of ignorance against the straight of hate.
Despair is enough to fuel the risk
And spark the start of our ending.
When Man is gone
Who shall sing?
The dust.
My memories are just ghosts at last
That spring from mists to startle me
Past knots in the total weave
That sift the sands of consciousness
Into devils of delight and gentle regrets.
The hands of the Fates
Twist the vortex of the future
Through the fingers of the day
Into threads that pass away from sight
But lightly linger in the heart
Through the summer of existence
To the fall.
All summers end.
Invoke the past.
It might be your last.