Petering Out Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

One stares across the fading yard,
Where autumn gnaws the rusting gate.
The days once raced now stumble hard,
And every hour arrives too late.

The mirror keeps a thinner ghost,
Its silver tongue devoid of grace.
It knows the things one fears to host,
Yet says them with a stranger's face.

Still somewhere in the evening rain,
A stubborn ember yearns to glow.
Though engines cough and groan with pain,
Some roads refuse to let us go.






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