On the Fringe

I once held the hope that our language would be universal —

Our substance: timeless.

That we would never become a trend of the past;

That our magic would not fade through the ages.

Upon me proved, was this error?

Recollecting in awe: Our briefest memories.

In a time where stars were that which did the gazing,

And our trampled road was but still a virgin to steps,

And when Zion’s walls were left un-bled.

A time when birds hushed their song to hear your voice,

When gilded flowers undressed to catch but a glimpse of you,

And when the lanterns of the gods ceased to barter homes all but to lengthen the mere sight of us,

Such times have all but elapsed to fringe — memories hung — yet blazing of remembrance,

And no longer do Zion’s gates remain estranged to blood.

Perhaps Time’s domain no longer knows of hearts like these;

Lost to the pages of time we have slipped away.

I am left with the memories,

For, in the end, all we can do is recollect.

I remember.