Poetry

     January, Two-Thousand Thirteen   

The curtain closes—actors head back-stage;

The over-flowing opera-house stands desolate.

The night is young—people rush home—people of every age.

Merriment then painful silence—a fickle fate!

Today, the curtain closes on year-twenty-eight,

Tomorrow, its failures—achievements—just a story.

The withered man stricken with years sat where I sit:

For him ‘twenty-eight’ is forgotten memory.

From the melancholy of silence comes a whisper,

And my despair for fleeting-youth and coming-years

Diminishes—‘the phantoms frightens not Father’.

The road is rough and night is near! I’ll face my fears.

     In two hours I’m twenty-eight no more,

     But God my God is God forevermore.