Here Come the Echoes

Blink, and find the ghosts of our summers;
those days, faded and gold
You and I pitched baseballs and rocks,
then waited for sound;
took cardboard to hillsides,
and slid the hot hours away
We wrestled and smoked
(whatever left a mark, however minor),
built our clubhouses by puddles of sunlight,
and found forever friends for the first time
We got lost (never to be found) on purpose,
carried sticks for protection from the inevitable,
and hung aces in our rusty spokes

The wind often grew too noisy for us
to hear one another becoming silent
Maybe that’s why all we do now is talk
A torch once accompanied our conversations
And all the drugs that we replace people with
aren’t worth the sunburns we sold,
the dog bites we iced,
or the dirt that we wore
As far as this wisdom
which we were made to seek is concerned:
I wish we’d known that
knowledge is paid for with our purity
I’d suffer my childish mind throughout the ages
for one more Monday-morning war fought by your side

Poetry from Nevermore Forevermore by Shane Windham
E-book and paperback now on Amazon.com

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