Shedloads of nothing

“The hour of spring was dark at last,

sensuous memories of sunlight past,

I stood alone in garden bowers

and asked the value of my hours.

Time was spent or time was tossed,

Life was loved and life was lost.

I kissed the flesh of tender girls,

I heard the songs of vernal birds.

I gazed upon the blushing light,

aware of day before the night.

 

So let me ask and hear a thought:

Did I live the spring I’d sought?

It's true in joy, I walked along,

took part in dance,

and sang the song.

and never tried to bind an hour

to my borrowed garden bower;

nor did I once entreat

a day to slumber at my feet.

 

Yet days aren't lulled by lyric song,

like morning birds they pass along,

o'er crests of trees, to none belong;

o'er crests of trees of drying dew,

their larking flight, my hands, eschew

Thus I’ll say it once and true...

 

From all that I saw,

and everywhere I wandered,

I learned that time cannot be spent,

It only can be squandered.”

― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

Done