- Books, Literature, and Writing
Dusty, Rusty Trophies
Somehow it happens. Every day. Every year it happens
As sure as seasons we know leave, go, it happens.
Silent mist on an excited moment it raises the sickle
Slowly, surely stardust mingled with blood starts to trickle.
Sudden surprise, disgust and numbed igorance stands
Taking "the" highest, the talented, and gifted of our hands.
Not caring the name, the name, losses or gains
Until a deathly reality arises and only a wrinkled memory remains.
Endless lines of little boys shirking away their childish toys
Run, scrape and fight to see "the" stars align with buoys.
But for one twinkle, one wink, and they cease to shine
And still no one knows, no one stops, the raging epitaph of time.
Their muddy, bloody steps in mud, slime and snowny days
Blot out our fiery fears, our burning tears, and kiss obscurity away.
The walk like statues of marble hewn
Not looking on fading horizons other statues have strewn.
Still, the mundane, unceasing whispering of time has said
Live in the breath of greatness and shine in the darkness of death.
Do they listen? I think not. Too busy building an humble shrine
A soon dusty shrine to house dusty, rusty trophies of grind.
The eyelash slows to bat, the useless tongue begs where I'm at
While sodden ears hear the silently ceasing praise now so flat.
Eyes are dim, space in ink so thin, what are they now?
A name, a revolving story, no worshiper now to bow.
Solitary ray of light through cold and window dark
Reminds the stars of lost glimmer, deadly stark.
A groping, wrinkled hand slips again to stand
All in all, oh gods of fame, alas you are but a mortal man.
© 2017 Kenneth Avery