Passing By: Poetry

It just so happened the other day

as I was on my merry way

I stumbled across a worn fox

leaning against the polished rocks

that cornered some old monument.

I knew that fox, for her I sent

to far off lands so long ago

the years gone by like fluttering snow.

She looked at me, her face so cold

her body draped in a flag of old.

“Remember this?” she said to me

her eyes tumult like raging sea.

“Remember now your crown of old?

Or all of that now faded gold?

Two weeks ago that era ceased

ten days ago the organ wheezed.”

She gave a smile oh so sly

and with a small gleam in her eye

she asked, “Come on and tell me sheep:

can you or that sphinx ever sleep?

Of course not,” she said without much haste.

“There was no sphinx in the first place.

No, just a sheep who watched its keep

September, October there was no sleep.

Now here’s November: turn around

and tell me if you hear that sound,

or lack thereof-” she stopped abrupt

a tension there set to erupt.

“Of course, your road’s not over yet.

There’s so much work before your set.

Yet here I hold that flag of old

of memories that will be told.

Now carry on, carry on, carry on you.

Do the work you have to do.”

And with a smirk, the fox strolled off

leaving me with one last thought

of carrying the flags of old,

remembering life’s truest gold.

 

 

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