WHERE THE PHANTOMS RACE
Little
children know the place,
Far
from mother’s call,
Where
the phantoms race—and
Small
eyes peep through the walls.
Gleeful
moments twinkle long
In
the sunlit days;
Soft
the siren song—draws
The
sweet ones in their play.
Green
to gold and crimson rust;
Autumn
takes its hold.
Fates
change as they must—airs
Quick
move from warmth to cold.
Ashen
crowns on tousled heads,
Beetled
eyes and tongues,
Flash
the frost brings dread—now
All
pendulums have swung.
Effigies
in marbled rime
Still
as life elapsed,
Consorts
with grim time—so
What
once was must collapse.
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