The Lost Ages

Between hope and sorrow
found in spirituals played
in minor keys dwells a note
releasing the captives into
a sweet place of freedom.

The doe keeps her head down
eating the sweet and desired 
delicacies from neighborhood
flower beds while the owners
sleep the sleep of the dead.

A return to correct ways of living
postponed by a prodigal display
of fragile members demanding
an accounting of the lost ages
lives only in the dreams of beggars.

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