daybreak wears
a yellow dress
longer than july
and wonders to the boys
with woolen hands
summers gone
and one more ring
was promise to endure
the golden age
the turning page
resigned

by one
was I another
slept beyond my prime
cursing at a dream
for letting go
held in place by whispers
dare I make the bed
and worry then
for where my pen
was laid

fingers trace
the only proof
someone locked the door
a name for places
I can scarce recall
a life before the living
let of me to leave
photographs
and what of then
remains to be
again

swept beyond
the reaches
of a faraway resolve
some other dream
remembers me
to home

. . .