Parade of Wonders

Oh the clock ticks moments

in precise progression...

marking a moment that leads

to an end... somewhere.

The parade floats by

in a waving procession,

a wafting of hand

signals a vacant stare.

From the memory of lilacs

and hawthorne in bloom,

nothing compares with the

wonder of an innocent youth.

We live in our cork lined rooms

watching the parade of parody

march by with flags, and bugles,

and banners of bravado.

It's no wonder that the wizened cry

as the drumbeat of the past

dings a harp string and clutches

the last sobs of a distant bagpipe.

Silence is an answer too.