Wednesday, February 25, 2009

A Citrus Revelation

The demise of many none do care to grieve
But hark! their mark they do not fail to leave.

Slowly and pensively as I climbed up the stairs
(Glancing at whose floor is more than anyone cares)
Old memories revisited me when I came upon a stain
Where the orange piece (for want of a better word) had lain.

If you had, for the old poem, enough attention spared
And are alive to tell the tale - not mortally despaired,
Though the emotion was intense
There was present continous tense
You were eased by the security contained in eternity
But to discount the constancy of change and celerity,
is wanton temerity.

And I speak now of things as they are in reality
No light or shade of idealism or morality...
In the place of the solitary drupel (for that's the better word)
There lay no solitary drupel, having been moved by man or bird,
Effaced from existence, no more to be seen or heard.

There was present an orange stain that could shame the setting sun,
Lending colour to the battlefield where finality had won,
Speaking clearly the acid truth, that Vanity is Vain
Be you drupe or be you balrog, you shall end an orange stain.