All these voices, where do they come from?
The wind blows, and I do not now your source.
You take me with you in spite of my will
On each journey, who directs my course?
Not love, not life, not even death itself
Like a fallen feather death slowly unfolds.
I am here today but gone tomorrow
Where to, and who cast the final moulds?
Some high flyers, the spine from their back disappears,
While others come crashing down in pieces and die.
I know fate does not wait on my acts or me,
Who writes this final verse -is it really I?
"Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero"
Horace words fall silent on my deaf ears
Youth ambition blinds the daylight bats
And lonely nights are doubts fallen fears.
I leave the Gods out from this equation
Math and algebra are not my strongest token.
My beating heart is my rhyming in question
My heart's harp strings are old but not broken.
"What remains of us is love'" I wholeheartedly embrace,
Such love foretold is for some is a fool's gold
They went searching for love but found its doors
Locked behind triple chains blackened with mould.
I fess up, I confess, this was their test, not my test,
And they failed miserably to find true love and to recover.
Seize the moment and go for the pot of gold - is their gold standard-
But not my cup of tea, I prefer to be content as a poetry lover.
January 10,2013-
Copyright Leaking Pen 2013
Rev Nov 10th   2014