I am an emissary of the old.
I once felt sunset flowed
From sanguine seas to rivers gold
Where poppy fields gathered and showed
What hope sown into being can nurture.
Yet, here I stand covered in shame
Dangling my arms weak, gone lame
And I wonder where was the sunset I name?
That once felt hope sown into fame?
I feel hopeless. This field is dead to me.
So why do I still wander free?
Towards some destined star I see?
I, the emissary of old, plea.
But, I'll just to remember to breathe.