Summer’s End

Poetry on the run

Our memories,
once so sharp and short,
now litter the landscape
with the bones of our hopes.

It is strange,
knowing an end will come,
how we could live so long
as if nothing would change.

It was spring,
the sweet early days of June.
We did not feel the slide
to the end days of August.

Nights are cold now,
Days shortened to shadows.
Change has passed us,
we drift in its wake.

Somehow even now
we still cannot see
what went wrong,
why we are dying so soon.

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