The Past is gone, its ashes old
Are scattered throughout time .
Its noble deeds, however bold,
Are under silt and slime.
A tombstone cold upon a hill,
A memory in some heart–
My Future, plotted grim and chill,
No comfort does impart.
Perennially, the Present keeps-
A flower Man understands;
And here am I, between two sleeps,
To hold it in my hands.
by Ray Romine Wednesday, January 15, 1947
