The Dross of Pathos
The grate of pathos makes for dross.
The shed of dross, to beds of moss.
And fertile moss sweetens the man.
Only time, can finish the plan.
Spring has gone and Decembers cold.
The fires old and does not hold.
Its embers stir. They sigh for care.
While slurs of ashes die of wear.
Life still searches in hope and cling,
Of textured winds, another spring.
To sense with fevered hand, no glove,
The presence of, new buds of love.
It asks no bliss nor homage lift,
No dying kiss set it adrift.
It would a final gusty cry,
Cry aye, to one more lusty try.
Although our body dies of wear,
Our mind will always hope and dare.