Opportunities like seagulls in flocks
have flown by ,
precious moments and chances
whipped away suddenly from our grasp ,
sent whirling skyward
into ethereal anonymity ,
revealing an emptiness
of purpose
exposing a hollow shell
cracking at the seams ;
whispers shall be our deliverance
but not for a while yet ,
and the mists of morning
accompany us with their dull cadences
which we often mistake for unwarranted approbation ;
there is neither failure nor success ,
neither defeat nor triumph ;
our gilded shields and splendid spears
have rendered nought
but an inheritance of tears ;
Somewhere in the drowning stream
as the Sun sets and encroaching night
begins its long slow asphyxiation
of what we thought was our day ,
a solitary flower is placed carefully
on an unmarked grave in a church yard
at the edge of the coming Storm .