, , , , , , , , , , ,


will come a time
when it won’t matter
what I wrote –
given place
with another

my name
a distant musing
words where there
are none
what solace found
beyond the reach of soul

it won’t matter
how I loved
or how deeply I endeared
the colors
of each season
the taste of cappucine

it won’t matter
where I found you –
or where we were
when first
we knew

it won’t matter
that my laughter
carried more
than all my tears

that my song
has found its rhythm
in the rain

. . .