Silver Shadows

Good Times,
in the shape of mother, lover and
the happy forgetful days of childhood,
that flit before my eyes with quivering speed,
you are not you.
No more the originals with which
I recollect a connection.
You are a silver shadow,
Yet now,
When closed in,
By the phantoms of these New Times,
I can still somehow make out your graceful shapes...

A mother's kiss, caress... a look of admiration...
Having been exquisite to someone...
once...
A wild running child...
flying hair... and a mind free, beautiful
like the clouds above.

Then suddenly awakened
By some grotesque reality
I reflect with a sigh:
You are a silver shadow...