How many sunsets must there be
before we leave the green edged paths and tree lined roads?
These little clouds proclaim a chilling rain,
a harbor left from shore's regret.
This is the last time, there will be no more.
Matters not.
The air is still.
Where there's sorrow, there is loss,
and moments do not stay long
'til we are left alone.
See, the edge of the earth is turning into nothing,
going round we with it into eternity.
And this is where it ends.
For a moment or an hour we sway and stumble about
clinging to nothing but the chiseled memory of a last
goodbye.
