A poem

Before you read this poem, you should know that my poetry is not exactly 'avant garde'. In fact, it is old fashioned in terms of style and to a certain extent, even subject matter. But I cannot help myself since I am obsessed with the Old Ones and their words and raspy voices glide down over a century or two to speak to me in my dreams. Furthermore, here at Flowers of Sulfur, I find myself in the company of much more experienced poets, so I implore you not to be, too disappointed....

Could This Be My Dying Hour

What am I to her
but a mere vestige
of a memory long ago
banished to an attic
of lost and discolored
artifacts.

How would she feel
if by chance she came
upon my photograph,
faded and frayed
at the edges and abandoned
by time itself?

Would she frown
at the remembrance
of events best forgotten
and curse the phantoms
of the past disrespecting
her cherished serenity?

Would she forgive me now
that her hair is silvery grey
and the deep black
velvet mane
has slowly over the years,
simply faded away?

These questions I ask
clearly betray,
to me my guilty conscience,
heavily compounded
by a fear that breaks
my cold and calculated reticence.

How strange that Time
which seemed to be
in youth, an eternity,
has miraculously shrunk
into a finiteness through which
I gape in horror-
in horror at my own,
mortality.