There was so much that was meant to be left for me in this world.
But if so why do my ghosts tell me it’s time to go?
And why do my memories of long ago, seem to fade?
Like autumn leaves in snow.
I learned long ago, nothing stays if it’s pure like gold.
So why, do fading leaves taunt me to remember, when they clung to trees in summers days.
If so, why do I see ghosts of loved ones, reach for my hand, from winters cold, telling me, it’s time to go.
Summer days seem to fade, skipping fall to snow.
And ghosts of the past, reach out at last, and tell me it’s time to go.
I take their hands, that feel like winters cold, and move to the light,
A garden gate of old.
And ghosts of the past leave me at last,
In summers glory gold.
It was finally time for me to go.