Yearnings of Youth
The rain reminds me of the days of my youth, days of the yore. Young still, at face, but the heart has been tattered by the trials of time. The soft rains sound like a storm on the fragility of my skin. I ran a race legless and loved heartless and now youth has fled, like smoke from a chimney in a crematorium. I wish for a taste of what it was to be young and foolish. Like a musician fighting to outdo the canary, I know the vanity of these yearnings. Maybe life has been the teacher I missed in my germination. Maybe it will teach me better in death. They said that indeed youth is wasted on the young and wisdom on the old, and from where I stand, I am a product of the wastage of both, for time is fleeting fast past me, and bless me, wisdom is a distant memory. I remain the sinner that grace abandoned, and the kind eyes that once looked at me turned maleficent. The yearnings of my youth is to find the love that fled, but I’m a beggar who has ridden the fleeting horse way too m...