There is no Belle Époque for me:
I don't see, can't imagine, cities in lights casting shadows before me
As I walk away from them, turned
Or a world filtered through Kodak cameras,
Bleached in basements or faded into the attics
Of our brains,
I see a blinding, resplendent sun instead
And I approach, wrestling shadow until it falls behind
And I never deny that I have whimpered, on occasion
Complained and maligned my path
For to stare into the face of the future is a frightening prospect
And to have him glare back, beard bristling,
Or to have her burn your eyes inside-out, from within their not yet settled sockets
But we all must overtake and let these images lead the way
And follow them rather than be tempted to turn
And breathe the soot that curls from the ashen past,
Someday we may ourselves be part of another lover's ashen past
But Not because we wish to, it naturally falls
And settles, and collects
Only if we turn the time to come into our own
And say, "I have my own beautiful, golden time
That I shall grow from the earth,
And that shall be the way I am remembered."
May 19
Diggin' the personification
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