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The Passing ParadeDay by day in the passing parade, - bells ring out so I can hear
their unceasing jingle down the main; - footfalls thrumming year by year,
marching on in rhythmic beat. - Beneath the sunshine's baking heat,
shouts are heard of purest lark, - proceeding from its very start
unto the precessions furthest end. - Within this crowd pace gentlemen
who flatter the objects of their affection - as merchants yell of things to sell,
displaying these for admiration. - also within this congregation,
venders sell to passers by - treats a plenty for any buyer
as jugglers twirl sticks of fire - in daring acts of presentation.
Streamers sparkle everywhere, - many still drifting in the crowded air
or swaying lightly in the cool shade, - day by day in the passing parade.
Day by day in the passing parade, - redolent scents drift slowly down;
at once being raised by the din of sound - to lazily drift over those below.
The scores seem with time to grow, - to expand within this peopled mass
as the bands play on their jolly tunes, - sunlight glinting upon the brass.
These droves I see with revelation - march to an unknown destination
from a place of which is hitherto - also unknown to explanation.
The masks which pass before my eyes - are ever changing their disguise,
rigid portrayals of cheerfulness - which hide all pallor and dolefulness,
for as is seen beyond the lies, - the masks we bear are a part of us.
By the rays slanting above this site, - each petal turns gold in the fading light
as they hang in bloom along the way, - day by day in the passing parade.
Day by day in the passing parade, - the glitter once fallen is trod upon
as trotting horses pull laden carts - overly loaded with hay being drawn.
Here and there a trumpet blares - as a rowdy child trumps a horn
in disregard to those he scares, - and also his mother's scorn.
Discarded wrappers line this walk, - remnants of treasures easily forgot
lying useless at the dusty heels - of those remaining in the abating lot.
Street-lamps now light the entire path - as a drunken joker with unsteady laugh
stumbles in pursuit of those ahead, - completely oblivious of being an ass.
As he dissolves when finally passed - like a moment in time when come at last,
I spy a place all bathed in white, - and toward this welcome sight I tread
to go where it is that I am led - from this point without delay,
by and by in the passing parade.
Poetry written by: Bryan Garaventa; all rights reserved. No unauthorized reproduction or distribution is permitted without prior consent. If you would like permission for either of these purposes, or for any other reason, please click here to inquire further.
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