Dusk



The poet said
Don't ever tread
Too softly toward the night.
As dusk appears,
My twilight years
Cling to the waning light.
With careful aim
I feed the flame
Of youth, while yet it may
Reflect the fires
And bold desires
That were another day.
I wonder if
I'll ever leave
A memory in time.
Will words live on,
When I am gone,
To make my poem rhyme?
Oh, I have dreamed
A thousand dreams,
But few have come to be.
I see the bend
Where all dreams end.
What will be left of me?
A shadow falls,
Tomorrow calls
To angels as they tell
Of love and laughter
Living after
We who knew them well.


                Donna J. Stone


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