Monday, April 16, 2018

the old homestead

The dust settles unconcerned upon the weather worn cobblestones.
Paths long bereft of feet, first this way then another they roam.
A breath of wind stirs the dainty tendrils of a solitary wisp of fabric
sighing against the eternal onslaught of time and entropy and neglect.
The walls twist slightly, bowing with slowly diminished strength
As the earth claims its own.
And young boys that venture there do not see the lives and the sorrows
lived within. 
Stopping, casting jaundiced gaze upon the lives spread there before them,
Vulnerable and exposed, they laugh and jeer and do as boys do.
Sticks protrude from out of lighthearted fists and the harsh cacophony of shattering
fills the humid air and rolls out across the pastures.
Splintering jolts of violent energy explode out into the atmosphere
As youth and vigor are released in easy anger, quickly dissipated. 
With a sigh and a yell, the boys move on.
Off to discover some new fantasy, some pursuit worthy of their nubile attentions.

The dust settles unconcerned upon the weather worn cobblestones.
Paths long bereft of feet, first this way then another they roam.
And the splinters and the shards, though cast away, relish in the vibrancy
Ponder with delight the raw and unchecked vigor absorbed there.

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