Fallen Fruit Of The Persimmon Tree - Poem by John Lyday
I have stowed away my coffee spoons;
marching time engulfs my gloom.
Once I was the dandelion,
sun soft petals look so fine,
receptacle for wandering bees,
plucked by children with skinned knees,
fastened and linked to form a wreath.
A little joy at once bequeathed
before the wind scattered the seed
of the deceptive, backyard weed.
And they did once come and go,
without the help of Angelo.
I learned to love; I learned to hate.
And neither will in the end abate.
Greatness glimmered a few times.
Was at best a pantomime.
It was not to come to pass;
the buoyancy was not to last.
Strands of optimism were relieved
by the cost of nature's need.
Indecisions by the hundred,
Visions that life had plundered.
Floundering upon her rocky shores,
passing time among her whores,
Night and day were one to me.
I thought that sin would make me free.
Partially an element of truth,
The tempest in me began to soothe.
Solitude became my opiate.
For life's travails I was unfit.
Did he dare? Do we care?
With the bald spot in his hair.
Now I seek to repeat my youth
with different eyes to seek the truth.
When men and women would retire
to lick the wounds that now attire
the nudity of their insolence
to think that they could recompense.
I throw away my measuring cup,
no longer care when time is up.
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