Dead Blooms

Departed are the hours I can wile away the pale moon  
Now but wrinkle chin the coming eves of doom  
And tea leaves have all but been strained  
The wafting of my predicament In shadows  
My wasted old bones laying midnight winds  
 
My musing crone gives me the blessing and kisses of dead blooms  
The frozen pond is thin the chill has left my quill  
Leading me to my forgotten prose on the other side window sill  
Silently my sighs and closing eyes cry at unfinished words  
Departed are the hours I can wile away the pale moon