Experience (rough)

Golden hay streams across the familiar
Place, plains that once were crimson and em'rald.
I can easily recall elation
That was so fondly streamed across my mind
In this stream and wondrous field.

The fields were decorated in childish
Laughs, a young girls hope, a boyish love, all
With swings, slides and further off a maypole
Dressed with green, pinks, crimsons- once, long ago.

Now fires burn and smoke flood fields that
Once shone with light, wondrous and pure,
and blight leaks out like tar, like fear, ugly.
Thick as molasses, but shares nothing of
the sweet syrup, only sloth, and the restless
nature of youth tainted- love spoil'd.

And where the kids' love grew, where we saw us
and what it meant, and who we were we knew,
now stands monuments to gleeful epochs
covered in moss, devoured by time.

What a treasure it is to see, black seas
blacker heavens encompassing our statue
of lips once kissed, of hands rarely held
of beds that beautifully were shared.

And now, mother, lover, ruby, friend
I can only walk away from the scene
Only hope to make life
of our statues,
of our times.