Ring

These are the days of sick pale sunlight
Worms writhing in the soft muddy ground
Baseball played in black mourning uniforms
By ghosts of summers past

These are the days of gulls dashing against rocks
Of stories half-remembered read from yellowed books
Confused dust fumbling about in slanted light
In ancient hospital rooms

These are the days of wanting to be more
Fuller, more colorful, vibrant and alive
But these days squirm in semi-darkness
Eating shadows of the past





I see you removed your ring; it was cheap, and left a green circle on your finger.
Nothing is golden anymore.