literature

You walk among the tranquil graves
To take away a piece of their peace,
Swirling cheap but colorful wine,
Sipping it thoughtfully quaint quite quietly.

I know you have songs sleeping deep in your heart,
When you were young you wrote beautiful poems;
Though I never read one, your steadfast gaze on your goals
Says to me, just to me, soon you will slow down.

To envelop what you alone can engrave,
To be present when you steal by those stone faces,
To remove the golden stillness from their houses,
To paint windows in the clouds with their silver etchings;

View the rain, before it pours—while it is stored.
Witness thunder prior to the boom,
Can you see the soundless scene within that room?
Where everything you’ve done comes back to prove

The sequences of this world are not making you.
Tell me you have not written a word since your neglected youth,
But laugh with a smile stained red with wine, when you learn the truth.
You are writing as you walk among the tranquil graves.