The room looks old

and smells of wood

The clock shows noon,

its hands made of gold

The fire lies in cinders,

its embers dying out

Feeble sparks shoot out,

like a romance rekindled

The hearth grows cold,

just like the heart,

as each hour passes fast,

for the lady who grows old.

Her hands begin to fumble,

her face a map of wrinkles,

her eyes a permanent crinkle,

incoherent words she mumbles.

The candle flickers feebly,

plunging the room in darkness

The night is moonless.

The clouds drift slowly.


A simpler time

In a simpler time,

when bells chimed,

and words spoken from the eyes,

meant more than a sweet voice


When a bird’s song brought smiles,

and people didn’t need dimes,

when love was the currency,

and easily came mercy


When love was true and not a game,

when immodesty wasn’t fame,

when clothes were long and pride short,

and women were more beautiful than hot


In a simpler time

when bells chimed,

is where I want to live,

for the rest of my life.