The old me.

Had I at seven, written memoirs for midnights, allegories for nighttime,

Had I penned gentle ballads, harmonies, symphonies,

Had I written of what I felt and what was to feel,

Many tales of bliss my fingers would’ve told.

•

In his eyes, forever red were the roses,

Forever blue, the violets,

Winds and storms could make ashen the violet, swallow the rose,

In his eyes, they’d only gone a place better – home.

•

A tad bit older, a tad bit wiser,

The silver lining in clouds now clouded,

The gold at the tail of the rainbows, plundered,

The lights by the end of the tunnels, darkened,

Optimism of childhood, faint, dead.

•

By sunsets

I sit by square windowpanes,

Reminiscing about nights of euphoric ignorance,

Wishing again to be him, to be me, the old me.