The Golden Years

 

The Golden Years

I fell asleep–

which must be

the explanation

of finding myself

here, years gone

gray tinged roots

creased friendsโ€™ faces

children with children.

And this visage staring

in the mirror, me?

Or my mother?

Do I share her bitter-

ness, her discontent?

Bile rises, lost days,

moments, fears

Breathe in.

You are here

Your eyes still blue

Your sweet smile lopsided,

Your humor available

Your hair now silver

If all my lost scattered days

secreted a celestial rainbow

certainly you must be the gold.

 

Sascha Darlington

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22 thoughts on “The Golden Years

  1. Pingback: The Art Student [group story] – Singledust

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