Never Too Far Gone

Foresight,

The tale of to become

But lacked,

What never will.

The song of summer played out in snow,

And the soft fall of autumn

A muted death silences the spring.

The lover’s ring not seated,

If the first steps not taken,

But by mind and matter,

Stepping into dead air,

Is the dread-fear.

That blindsight,

It ruins what could become.

Love lost

Blood shed.

All of hearts:

Bled out across the snow,

Fallen by spring.

But eyes reopened,

Can catch the falling,

Stead the bleeding.

And sense sharpened,

Would relive the feeling,

Stay the pain brought in fire,

With fall of winter’s frost.

Too far gone,

Not so.

In it, the race never lost,

Death can still be stemmed,

Until the end,

Long far gone…

Unless the spring dies

Again.

Author's Note

This is another poem I wrote a few months back, and just haven't gotten around to posting. I... I wrote this in relation to a number of things I've experienced and seen experienced throughout my life. Especially in times of conflict, despair seems prevelant around many people when hope seems all but lost. And when hope is lost, all is lost, for what is left matters nothing if no will exists to use it. Foresight is a kind of expectation. A sort of knowing that infringes upon spontaneity, when any surprise is already known. It ruins the games of life, until foresight itself fails, and lends the greater surprise, sometimes for the better. Sometimes for the worse.

Reviews

[Russani]

Too many words, not enough said. The format also made it difficult to read, for me.