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Is it age which blurs the once-clear lines
Between what was, what is, and what
May one day come to be, and, doing so,
Destroys what is? That poor state,
That temporal Alsace-Lorraine,
Is seized one moment by what was,
The joy I knew when my love used
To speak to me, then taken by what
Is to be, the failure of my rotten heart.
The state itself is pleasant, placid.
My love's absence does not take
The sun's late warmth away from me,
And, likewise, my impending death
Has no effect upon the life which
Splits the air at breakneck speed
Upon the pavement, on two wheels.
What is is good when apprehended.
What was isn't in its absence. What
Will be won't be much fun, so I must
Strive to grasp what is, and reject
Other states.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 59 times
Written on 2017-01-31 at 00:31

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