Let Us Cry

Let us cry for things lost.
For faces we will never see again.
For experiences clung-to though barely remembered.
For crayon colors no longer in the box.
For tastes dried like straw on the tongue.
For moments extinct as terrible lizards or elephants with fur.
For things that were and never were.

There are no real words for the terrors of time.
For the death of innocence.
For the demise of purpose and direction.
For deficiencies in hearing and sight.
For photo albums of yellowing black and white prints.
For voices now muffled by dirt and stone.
For long hours spent lonely and alone.

Let us cry for things lost.
For the buried and the bygone.
For names with no future only a past.
For stories told to sleepy children.
For one small knot in a great spider's web.
For a night sky so dark the stars must peek around its edges.
For a thousand feet toeing a thousand ledges.

There are no real words for the terrors of time.
For waiting in hospital corridors.
For standing next to newly tiled earth.
For October memories of April skies.
For calendar pages flipping on newsreel frames.
For dated fashions and friendly facades.
For weary winks and tired nods.

Let us cry for things lost.
For boot prints left in melting snow.
For haystack needles un-found and forgotten.
For comforts we've moved beyond.
For dreams we've dreamed, but outgrown.
For Saint Theresa's homilies dripping with un-godly grace.
For life slipping from our embrace.

There are no real words for the terrors of time.
For peeling skin on ancient lips.
For flecks falling from chipped figurines.
For taking our place at the head of line.
For a chill in the bones and an ache in the heart.
For wisdom won at a terrible cost.
For things now lost, lost, lost. . .