No Longer Time: A Poem
of Elrond
By Vané Alasse
How strange that
seasons of this life
are born anew in
foliage of green
and radiate their youth
and joy and innocence
amid a lush a fragrant
canopy of gold,
but then as days roll
on and pass to weeks
the freshness and the
glee begin to fade.
Hardened by a stronger
glare and heat,
the green is burnished
to a harsher brass.
Softness stiffens as
the first few threats
of ache and pain and
weariness
creep under the façade
of flowering prime.
Then the passing of the
hours becomes
no more alluring than
the flying sun
which every morning
wakes and dances forth,
yet in the evening
resigns with scarlet tears –
lost in the darkness of
regretful night.
Slowly all the little
stings which life has brought
begin to multiply in
one great wave
which crumbles at its
peak and fades away
to shattered oblivion
against a thousand more.
And no, oh now! The
winter has begun
with all its cruel
emptiness and grey,
its shocking white and
choking ice
that grasp the final
essence of the soul
and whip it harshly
with the lash of age –
where even wisdom is
forgotten
in the mist of delirium
and all its facets,
because now there is
no longer time
to hope.