I would creep away,
toes digging into cold sand
at the edge of slate seas,
while winter froths
the sweet of life away.
All days are filtered through flawed memory,
like the stab of sunlight on an aging oak tree
where once we stood like champions,
toes braced for the steel spear point
that chastens dreams.
Even the guitar case stands empty
while the troubadour lies stricken,
a steel spear point in his heart
where once plans shone like sunlight
on the oak tree of youth,
empty guitar case
we all fall like expired stars
into the soundless abyss.
Katherine L. Gordon