It's not completely round, it's the beginning of a teardrop. As if it's cohesion to the past has only just begun. It hasn't, of course, just begun - it goes back a long way. When Desoto came, did he cry here? Or was it the denizens that here cried? After all, they paid the consequences in totality. But here it is, nonetheless. The known, but unknown lake. The Mirror that reflects my approach and my wonder. The tears that filled this basin still lament memory's passing, history's retreat.
In an age where only the fleeting importance of emotion does matter. When the reasons for tears no longer have substance, no longer have depth, the basin becomes shallow. Today's tears do not fill the void, but only reveal. Nothing can be traced to a tragedy. Nothing. No foundation to build upon. No feat, no great loss, no mystery, and certainly no intrigue.
When I now gaze into this tear shaped Mirror from the past, and know who was here, and know the cost, I begin to understand the mystery. I begin to perceive that those who stare back were far greater than me. Faces that this generation will never see.
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Comments1
beautifully woven, a great read!
thanks for sharing, dear poet
Lake Mirror in my hometown has had a long and unusual history that no one seems to be concerned with, if they've ever even heard anything about it. It's definitely the center of our unwitting community. Thanks for reading. I seem to be compiling a series of riddles related to it, as its story keeps inspiring some kind of writ.
maybe worth publishing, as a tomb of heritage
before they're lost to the passage of time
and an exponentially increasing disconnect
between one generation and the next..
endeavours like this are how cannon's germinate
devoid of outcome or utility
this is a laudable endeavour in my humble opinion
all the best, dear poet
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