Skies turn grey, and later rosé

The poetry of the earth is never dead — John Keats

Photo by City of Gold Coast on Unsplash

How clear, now, the brightime sky of youth
How lovely-fair that pursuit of eternal truth.
Those sunbeams of our morning life’s clarity
Laugh out, now, with a truly thoughless charity
That sets free a man longchained to violence
Appalled at vicious crimes performed in silence.
Evil soars through these dimming days of hope.
As we see the world slide down the slippery slope:
O! why do the wicked prosper?
O! why is man alone too weak to counter
dreadful wrong’s long swan song?
Now, we shall garner time, squander love no more;
Recall lost innocence and live by it.
Yes, the pinking of the sky
renders up memory to the west.
And we regain that zest for life,
put away that remorseful day,
where time and memory intersect,
we sway and swerve that day away.