LONELY PEOPLE

How lonely people cling to past,
Grasp for Winter’s frosty dale,
That some lived life will always last,
Lest tomorrow’s Summers dim and pale.
How private fear of fraying string,
That links the heart to faded joy,
Eludes the claim of coming Spring,
Lest what remains will be destroyed.
This poet writes such mimic verse,
To retain the words he no longer has,
To repeat his marriage in a hearse,
Lest time should see his feeling pass.
Yet I am faced with doctored time,
The scalpel cuts through fraying vine.

©  22 March 75 Colin F Jones

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