It is not mine, it is not yours.
It is not in the gentle breeze
Or in the howling of that lone wolf at night.
And though I looked, I did not find it in the tides
Or the gentle lapping of the waves upon the beach.
Nor in crying alone, in the pale moonlight,
Neither was it the kiss or the soft,
Shivering, caress of a lover.
But Always is there, somewhere.
But always just out of reach.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.


3 thoughts on “Always

  1. Pingback: Christmas and a Ho, Ho, Ho | Made of sticks and stones

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