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 .