When years go by there's seen a distant sun
ne'er spread with butter as in olden days
whose page now yellowed as a toasted bun
in acceptace of time's own lays and sways.
Then in the night in its awed foolish dreams
the mind in its flicker across the years
has a chasm of mystery ,it seems,
drunk on the wines mellowed by tears.
Perhaps it's forage in meadows of green
brighten somewhat the presages of time
as effervescent as the moments seen,
yet now whose inaugurations lack their clime
to this aging body now extending
Its thoughts to other shore less avenging.