The winds of change are cold,
And no matter how old,
They slip like a snake goes,
Swiftly, carefully, those blows.
We who are there,
Often aren’t even aware,
Of their ways and wile
The bitterness of their bile.
If I wrote the page,
The outcome wouldn’t rage,
Of lost sunsets,
And too many regrets.
I would have ended the story,
With truth, honor and glory,
Instead of despair,
And some other affair.
There would have been ignoring
Of passion and false loves boring
Children would have stayed
Exactly where they played.
Instead of lost to some shore,
Where who knows what door,
They had to walk through,
To loss and loneliness, that brew.
