| Tower
A forlorn gleam of evening sun now glistens on the dew
Of maiden days and youthful haze when memories were new.
The windows, like deep sullen eyes, look on the world below,
Still seeking newer pastures where more crystal visions flow.
Beyond forsaken mounds unmarked, among the rank-grown weeds,
The voice of song and ancient tales of long-forgotten deeds,
A stalwart wind moans long and low across the gate stones there,
And pipes the tunes of summer nights when gardens grew more fair -
Spry minstrel chimes, and sweet perfumes, and tantalizing wine
Of dreams, and days, and destinies, upon a tendered vine.
Abandoned by the architects that gave the arches name,
To fall away to depths below, from whence the masons came,
Last taste of life, and love, and lust to watch the starlight pass,
And merriment in lily fields, and rapture on the grass,
So loath to go in silent dust with no one nigh to hear,
And take to ground in mournful turn without an offered tear,
Precarious upon the edge of end’s abysmal stage,
Besieged by all the fury of the elements in rage,
It stands against the armies of attrition, though in vain,
And holds to form for moments more, as none will come again.
~ Daniel F Mitchell |
