by George Freek
The generations come and go
with endless repetition,
as spring flowers or winter snows.
It’s something we all know.
In a few hours I’ll be sitting with
another woman, drinking wine,
trying to make new memories
to forget our past.
Ave atque vale, dear wife.
Perhaps it’s not tragic,
but it’s unspeakably sad,
that your life was so short.
And that nothing can last.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing