Future Boulevard
The seasons pass above me down this lane,
And time walks forward, guiding future-blind
Poor souls like me to wakefulness again;
The pope is praying, cats are singing, kind
And gentle chess players offer up to me
Their kings; but from them all I stray; the leaves
Of yesterday are swimming backstroke, free
To take a pocketful of time like thieves.
Just looking back, the seasons mix and change:
The spring follows the autumn, winter calls
And beckons at my back, and just ahead,
The crown of summer’s heat is left arranged
Upon my memories. The E.R. walls
Are trees, and winter states that I am dead.
Source - http://lookslikegooddesign.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/10/la9.jpg
Painted by Leonid Afremov
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