Overthrown


I slowly cruised our former neighborhood:
Locations once familiar now are strange.
Most houses there are worse for wear and change;
No laughter echoes from the nearby wood.

When everyone grew up and moved away,
Our plywood platforms rotted in the tree.
No Robin Hood remained to climb and see
His merry men engage in daily play.

The paths we made have long since overgrown.
Our wooden forts became the forest floor.
Adventures don't occur here anymore— 
Our sacred places have been overthrown.


 


Humilitas


There is this hope they will remember me,
While not with flags half-lowered on the pole,
As someone they would all aspire to be:
A model man—another kindred soul.

Intentions were befouled by circumstance.
Accomplishments seem slight when said aloud.
But when I failed to seize a second chance,
I still survived unbroken and unbowed.

There will be those who mark my death with tears
As substance passes quickly into shade;
I pray they judge my time productive years
And face their circumstances unafraid.

I leave this life to stand before a gate
And pray to God my name's upon the scroll,
That afterlife might grant a better fate
Than I deserve in judgments of the soul.




​
Forgotten


The grass has overgrown the weathered stone
Since they first placed his body in the ground,
And visitors no longer come around
With hope they'll not, in turn, face death alone.

Did Life, for him, contrast this sorry end?
You'd never know by glancing at the name.
In fact, all resting places look the same— 
A fate we'll meet but never comprehend.

Once fragile flesh and memories decay,
The brush grows thick, and ivy starts to climb.
The lichen takes identities with time.
Precipitation wears the stone away.

Few living souls know whose remains are there;
Not even their descendants really care.

"Overthrown" was originally published in The Writers' Cafe Magazine.
 "Humilitas" was originally published by The Society of Classical Poets.   
 "Forgotten" was originally published in Vita Brevis​  
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© 2019  Randal A. Burd, Jr.