The golden rose
is now wilted, -
the sky turned
an absorbing gray.

The beautiful cloth
once quilted
unravels more
with each day.

Cold and hollow –
this life with no vigor,
listless and lonely –
this life with no peace.

No lust or meaning
to hold to the heart…
no small bit of creativity
to keep back the beast.

When does the child
no longer play?
When, instead, does it
struggle through days.

When did the child
cease to be?
When did it  no longer
allow itself to dream?

When did the
excitement leave
to be replaced by
numbness’ grief.

A golden rose,
once full of life
bends over in the wind-
weighted down by strife.

Would the numbness
of life ever go away?

No…no, it’s
 here to stay.