She, cold as stone, was once warm

and with soft, scented skin flushed pink

from a beating heart. And she moved.

She spoke, laughed, walked under sky acres.

Then immortalized inadequately in stone or words.

Crafted but cold, stationary, here and gone.




After many a summer dies the swan



The aurora at the start of day

cannot hold against the fall of night.

Being granted immortality but not eternal youth

is no wish fulfilled. Fear of death,

natural as the sunset, twilight, darkness, acceptance.


* Though this poem’s title is a line in Tennyson’s poem “Tithonus”, I was inspired by the the Aldous Huxley novel
that uses the line as its title. They both share the theme,