We tread scribe's path of wasted time,
From rivers flow and tainted bud
Yet knowing not the scan nor rhyme
Of sunset red and clouds that scud.
In forests green where rain does fall
On silver trails as snails are born
Now what does boring life recall?
But golden sheaves of wealthy corn.
Each narrow lane, the furtive eye
As drinking in the amber brew
With rainspecks from life's darken sky
And baby cat; its broken mew.
And now! on dark forsaken earth
Observe the speeding of the years
Ask yourself, what are assets worth?
As sorrow bides with constant tears.
It matters not that words don't rhyme
For more important sights are seen
Like growing old in peace sublime
Not where you go, but where you've been.
Yet! Vainly cry we selfish tears
For what we are, or might have been
To leave it all when death appears
To climb Scribe's path of Amber-Green.
Author: Leslie de la Haye.
'Path of wasted time {C}
http://baspiringpoets.yuku.com/
