Moor Considered

WordPress.com

“Tis within ourselves that we are thus or thus”

In the end, we are all Othello,
battles fought, life’s purpose gone.

People we loved dead along the way,
the places we traveled in youth
changed beyond all recognition.

A world that has moved on,
leaving us as living relics
of all that used to be,
looking at our own ruined Venice
slipping off into history.

Living’s inevitable denouement,
when things begin to become clear,
but no one is left to hear.

Only art might be eternal.

Poems made from memories,
pieces of a frozen frieze,
flowers swaying in a breeze.

Mind transformed into what might last,
created from our golden, imagined past.

More than a handful of dust.
More than a blood stain of rust.