So much fades with time and remains undone,
while the words are written, their order ever new.
Time is the adversary and this our victory won,
setting youth's meteor free for some final conflict.
Even now the days of rest seem heavy and few,
while hope's lines of supply seem lately indirect.
Mystery, the question of man, time, eternity,
a great void beckons with intrigue and promises.
Beyond the glass, our quiet steps into infinity,
the songs of the grass, in the fields and lofty hills.
A thousand eyes observe, in deeper recesses,
beyond where men are alone and curiosity fills.
The stars have spoken with silent agreement,
night lights and watchmen in faces from the past.
Opportunities lost and broken, souls lament,
for the innumerable faces - standing in shadows.
A fiery brand, a herald, a prophet moving fast,
through the deeper nebulae and sterling hallows.
Nothing is promised here, no words to calm,
our lives are memory, impressions, ancient tales.
Comfort is passage, knowing a soothing balm,
brushing away the luminary legions, like dreams.
We hurry, before the nocturnal canvas pales,
and life relents - to daytime's splendid schemes.
Brian Francis Hudon
August 27, 2014
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