When young and 
at the beach
holes I dug
walls I built 
to keep the 
sea at bay 
and now at
this old age 
I realize that 
that the sea
was really me
and the things 
that I built 
were really others
now to swim
never again walk
amongst any others 

Oh that’s nice 
this nothing is
except for sounds 
from somewhere else 
softened and dampened 
a quiet reminder 
that although alone 
I’m not lonely 
for the nothing 
is a notion
of peace’s potion
in this ocean 
of otherwise commotion 

The flat plains 
offer no threat 
to low east
sun that paints 
the tall buildings 
in yellow gold 
and things shine 
against the western 
sky like tombs
uncovered after eons
of cold darkness 

Going back 
to find 
and not 
to see
for saw
I have 
but revive 
and rekindle 
and restart 
and reignite 
the passions 
which darkened 
to embers 
but never 
to ash

We are but pages
in these our ages
filling our little books 
with baubles and nooks 
that they will find
and whereby might remind 
of what we meant 
when it was penned 
and maybe even so
of times long ago