Cru Bourgeois

His were bulletins from the front nor promises of return.

Sometimes wine does not age well.

Must be drunk when young.

The petals drying on the sill but a song unto themselves.

And the rest of us looking on.

Had took his fill and split.

As the mind continued to sing the one song that it knows.

Copyright © 2006 Timothy Liu All rights reserved
from Chelsea
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission