Before I watch it pass away
I'll gather up this dying day
And tend, with tenderness, its grave,
From which, a poppy, I will save.
This crumb of comfort I’ll compress,
Immortalise in flower press,
To conjure up this dying day
When it has long since passed away.
And when its sombre sun has set,
This remnant of a raw regret,
I'll bury, in my book of death,
To breathe its final, bitter breath.
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Author:
Blue-eyed Bolla (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 24th, 2019 03:38
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 10
- Users favorite of this poem: Fay Slimm.
Offline)
Comments2
Very appealing these winsome words of remembrance my friend - your pen captures the lament in all its poignant phrases. Saved to my favourites.
I enjoyed the flow of this poem
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