My, we were yar

We have now become
the grown ups.  Old unidentified
man lingers still in a frame
of teenage boys, sixteen or
seventeen years old, their lives
stretching out before them like
pristine canvases of luck.  Here
we all are fate and time jumbled
into what we now call our life.
Someone had a camera and the
shutter opened and closed,
catching us and holding fast to
candid moments in our lives,
caught forever as we never thought
we’d be.  Wrinkled, wearied, worn,
wavering somewhere between youth
and capitulation to time.

So Late This Peace

When hope dies light the candle of despair and let the weeping spill
rise up out of your heart explode the vessels that pump blood crash out of your chest
billow out and rise like balloons on the wind tears falling at your feet howls filling the air
this one lost not to be this one gone a memory only not a future unfolding as you thought.
When hope dies find out if something else was always there find out if you were only fooling
yourself and hope was nothing more than make believe remote control of reality which
anyway is so far outside your realm of influence as to be laughable so laugh.
Nothing wrong with laughing even at yourself at the tender little wishes you held like
flowers in your hand small and sweaty and young before you knew before you ever
had a broken heart before you ever had to learn to let go and finally learn to heal.