There is a dark and dusty chamber,
three chests I keep there,
on ancient shelves of hand carved oak
cloaked in dusty spiders lair
From full moon to moon I steal,
to measure, quickly passing life
in those three dusty padlocked chests
labelled, Joy, Mediocrity and Strife
The first I take a weighty chest
that fills quickly hour on hour
with life lost, now drawn, spent away
to labour, the thieving whore.
The second I take, lighter by far
still full of livings strife.
Of all the trouble grief and woe
the saddest days of life.
Loss and cruel death are also there
bitter days that rained down
I never read those tear stained pages
Lest in grief I drown.
The last is small, happiness it holds
Its shine with brightness rare.
Filled with days of gentle loving ease
all stored in memory there
And love stories written thin and small,
worn pages, just a few.
The poems and words I once composed
all written there for you.
© Dave Kavanagh @ daithiocaomanaigh.com