What They Say

Soon they say, the cold will come.
The last colors will fade.
My bones will become weary and brittle.

Soon, love may fade
and hate take its casualties.
The leaves that drift down the river

will disappear.

For nothing stays the same.
Winds and tides and seasons
will have their day

And history repeats itself
except when it doesn’t,
when a choice is made

and the work is done

to break loose, to find your way
to new seas, to breathe, to pause
and reach not into graves

but to the sun, determined
to find the season of your choice,
no matter the wind,

no matter what they say.

About this poem

I’ve been told so many things about myself over the years it makes my head spin. I would have to live seven lifetimes to be all the people I hve been accused of being. Some were true. Many weren’t close. Now, I am scarred, but more comfortable in my skin. I understand a few will love me. Most are lukewarm at best. And a few will hate me.

I just breathe. Pray. Savor the moments. Absorb the pain. Breathe. And continue the journey. Nothing noble in it. It’s just life.

Tom