Is everything starting over?
The waves never stop crescendos,
the wind its constant howling,
spring promises a better summer,
and lovers in their sleep
take a vow,
there’ll be no other,
except the dream
that conjures up a stranger.
I write a poem in mortal fear,
is this the last one I’ll ever do,
because nothing I have said
says it all,
or can be said much better?
Would I like to live life again?
I think no.
Some tears should not be
twice shed,
twice can break the heart in two.
And some loves
imperfect as they were,
could never be so beautiful again,
warts and all.
Friendships that pass
would not be better,
when they arrive
to where they’re headed,
let them go.
I have a hunch that nothing ends
behind closed doors,
and things are simply deja vu,
ready to be lived again,
when time starts over,
and we wonder,
have I lived before?