there’s a little piece of parchment, love

frayed upon its every edge

where the years have worn the fibers

and upon it’s fragile surface

has been scrawled a simple pledge

it’s nothing more than an impression

written down in faded ink

it’s just an honest exposition

more a humble admonition

scrawled to make the author think

it isn’t boastful or impressive

it wasn’t written to be read

he simply penned it full of meaning

as his heart was over-teeming

when he broke his morning bread

–

but that were many years ago, love

and the author has passed over

for between the crests and troughs of time

there’s a blend of shadow and of lime

both the nettles and the clover

light and darkness are essential

when the artist paints with light

and though shadows can be frightful

they can also be delightful

realize their full potential

when you glimpse the stars at night

–

it’s not as though the words have changed, love

since the author first had penned them

but we are more than merely names, love

words far more than idle claims, love

that other men assign them

we live, we learn, we love, we grow

and by this evolution

we expand the mysteries we know

in search for absolution

No soul has got it figured out, love

This labyrinth of existence

We all do our best to carry on

To decipher what is right from wrong

In each and every instance

–

There upon the dusty table

Where the wrinkled paper lay

Yellowed from the steady wear of time

Worn and weathered by the march of time

Somehow staving off decay

 

~j.d.schofield