Wednesday, October 22

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.

No comments:

Post a Comment