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In lonely, darkened corners hang the cobwebs of almost;
The last discarded memories are long-forgotten ghosts
Of unattained ambitions and of echo-empty boasts.
Their voices now are silence, but the cobwebs gather dust.
I sewed a net of gossamer, and pricked it full of holes,
To fish the moon's reflection from a sea where night unfolds
Its tales of mystery and dreams that no man yet has told;
Dawn caught me empty-handed, standing sodden in the shoals.
I tried my hand at playing Man. The critics rode reviews
O'er courses somewhat quizzical; their hollow-horned halloos
Had, in the distance, sighted game retreating right on cue,
Though never run to earth their quarry 'scaped that rendezvous.
To pluck the stars from out the sky, to venture through a mist
And reach the edge of nothingness, to cast my boat adrift
Upon the whims of fortune's tide, such destinies I've wished.
Yet all I have to show from life are unfulfilled requests.
I hide this dull uncertainty with metaphors of gloom,
Search out cachets of yesterday to spill their stale perfume;
The attic of time's mansion's stuffed with flowers that never bloomed
But wilt and fade their pale bouquet breathes melancholic fumes.
No spiders climb the cobwebs of my dry-rot riddled past
From which I built tomorrows, though I knew they'd never last.
My future stands deserted now, a derelict unmasked;
Old ruins only phantoms haunt, where cobwebs gather dust.
adapted from an uncredited photo found at
|photo: Stephen Alsford|
|Created: November 17, 2014.||© Stephen Alsford|