She that lingers like an immortal ancient fable,
When trees undress their worn leaves and cloth us in velvet decay.
I have to let her hide her sentinel ways in my vacant stare.
The difference between her tears and the rain is the subtle warmth.
I linger, but in haste: hurrying to procure her one last dream and wrest her off from the melancholic sleepwalk. The way we linger! Steady, like a leaf adrift a placid pond.
But high above in the open skies just inches beneath the eagle’s talons.
In the timeless moment, the one which transcends the illusion that is time we linger,
close enough to feel the soft scorn of a raging fire.
We slip and fall more often. Even then it’s not our imperfections, rather the victory of our glorious human nature.
And the pause, the tranquil one, when all our senses are amplified,
we drift about elevated.
We linger like the late noon sun.
Like jaded spectres stretching upwards for dear redemption.
Sure we linger as a family around the horizon.
And wherever eternity ends we will linger.
A poem by Tonny Wandella