It’s Not Over, Not Yet  

Old friend, we both wither with age and experience,

With lost love and lost hope and lost time. 

We accept what must be accepted, not disputing nor rebelling, 

Just waiting. 

Do not talk death with me, my friend, 

For while some feathers have been shed, you can still soar to new heights, 

Or revisit some already seen. 

And I’ll be there, above or below. 

It is not everyday that I see you, 

Perhaps in flesh but not in mind or in truth. 

And I long for truth, my friend, 

For something that is real and new, 

But all I find is the crease beneath your eyes when you laugh, 

And perhaps that is the truest thing; 

Perhaps what is worn is all that can be true. 

Old friend, I must silence you. 

It is not that what you speak is ill or ugly -  

For everything you spout comes from the richest of soils; 

Growing fully, boldly, dominating the valley and blocking the sun. 

And I am cold. 

My dear, I do not want to hear. 

I will blanket my ears, if need be, cushion them with feathers and cotton. 

Or you, my dear, could refrain from singing, 

For the melody is off key and it spirals into a storm I fear we cannot withstand. 

Old friend, we have lived. 

And while time may wish to give up on us, 

I refuse. 

As long as you are here, I shall be too. 

Two sunflowers in an overgrown meadow, 

Withering together, 

Roots and stems entwined alike, 

In a frenzy of colour and life.