Benched Poem by Ken Moore

Benched



In the Gloaming of life's last era
A futile finger in times dike
both wicks ashen gray
quiet comfort leers on passers by

daydreams Peer back to A squandered youth
background chatter from A lucid adolescent
The quiet breath belongs to A cherry picked memory
A romance of scorn far too weak to rise

grounded leaves from summer, now colored crinkle by
clinch and neglect winters tone, toward the suns caress

Confidence, views A stage of first impression judgments
Grin, The farce of an awkward ages glance to pity the aged
born too late to have wonders of their own

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Close
Error Success