30 September 2006

Autumn Winds

So short this life, so quickly it is past
Spring's frolic and summer's gentle languor;
My friends and kin are gone, I am the last
Shock and sorrow soon give way to anger.

Time's no gentle river and 'tis no stream
It's a cold, damp hand tearing at my face
Stubbornly I resist and try to dream
Though I remain alone, last of my race.

Quivering, wind ripping through uncloaked limbs
I cling to my perch, forestall destiny;
No, I'll not be victim to Nature's whims
Standing at the abyss, I choose: to be.

Nature's last trick: I'm too weak to hold on
At the last I yield and soon I am gone.

2 comments:

Angela said...

Puts my poetry to shame. You brilliant writer, you.

R.A. Porter said...

blecch? This is the sonnet of a 15-year-old. Girl, probably. This is why I gave up poetry...I blow.

Verification: ewoqbkqq
Ewok BBQ. But first, you've got to shear and skin those little buggers.