One Last Rite
This old place seems so old today –
The morning clear and weakly bright, but there’s an early chill.
Better get it underway.
But who’d’ve thought a wooded walk would take an act of will ?
I try to force a smile,
I tell my over-polished shoes I don’t look good in black.
This is gonna take a while,
We’re walking slow and solemn, with one fewer walking back.
It’s cold on the edge of town,
As what grows-up must all be lowered-down,
And ruby, gold, and emerald will all blur into brown-
And we are done.
There ought to be a lonely bell,
But we have overrun.
Our hollow words are meant so well,
But numbness smothers sorrow.
There’s no warmth from the Sun,
The moment’s gone, the race has run,
And I guess that I’ll be moving-on tomorrow.
Rhyming Couplets 