Ode To The Old
As a premature spring rain is born to an early March wind, a heavy heart carries unfulfilled dreams within my soul.
Rain falls steadily never to cease or console, as if only to circumvent my actions for a short while, contorting and adding more difficulty as the March wind howls and blows.
The mind wanders and reaches for a tiny fragment of youth as wrought iron rusts and a March wind swirls paying tribute to the Ode to the old.
Nearby trees yield to and fro, struggling to stand tall as the unforgiving wrath carries on.
Once supple hands are now crippled by an unforgiving touch of an ode to the old.
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Comments about this poem (Ode To The Old by Ron Pate )
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