Walk in the woods

So,

Call of the loss of youth.

Calling calling calling to you.
Rhythm that syncs to foot and bowed head.

Why must I cry over lost thoughts of our bliss.
How did time interview and make a cloud of your smile.
 From a glenn of grenn with purple trim oh so grim.
  GONE IS THE CHANCE TO REFRESH MY BEAU.
     NOT EVEN FROM THAT IMPS BENT BOW.
 So I am struck with the thought that it is rot. 
Never again to have such luck as to be in sync with you in thought.
K.