It may be long, it may be years,
Until it’s gone, but then the tears,
For our brief time, how cheap we sold it,
Gave our minds to touchscreen altars,
Made our gods of all that shined,
We fit the mould, we toed the line,
Chased the pretty bursts of smoke,
No sense of worth, lavishly broke,
We made our plans and played it safe,
Let priceless chances slip away,
Fields of daisies, fragrant, wild,
All passed over, left behind,
And then we’ll mourn what might have been,
Our untouched hoard, our wasted dreams.
© 2019 MILES VENISON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is awesome Miles!