Trace a silent line of beating wings,

Beyond an edge of this road ahead.

There I will stand before a grass sea,

Waiting to take you gently by a hand.

But only when the lines of time,

Have traced your face with worn care.

Let our hair be as silver-gray as a winter sky,

And our bodies as tired as snow weathered hills.

I will wait upon a last whispered breath,

To find you held tight in my arms again.

Surpassing each end of every road,

To a place where tears cease to flow.

There with yellowing grasses wave,

Upon the edge of this world will I stand.

---

Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the linkhere…