My muse is quiet, it whispers not
It draws me not into the past.
Perhaps that means my pain's forgot
And I am free at last.
Each day a cautious step remains
Each foot so gently placed
Hoping that the past retains
No ache that's not erased.
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Author:
Jabberwocky (
Offline) - Published: October 15th, 2026 09:10
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy, Tristan Robert Lange
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Comments2
A sad but at the same time hopeful poem where poetry is based upon a sad past that now seems forgotten. The power of pain lost and so its words as well. Emotion drives the poets windmills and when the breeze stops so do they. I have worked with dementia patients that have forgotten their past and pain and in some ways that is a blessing but the concomitant loss makes them not the same. In this conflict if given the choice I would choose the pain for in it there is a sweetness. Here is wishing the muse's return.
Our pain defines us, without it we have not lived, or are not fully human.
Maybe I\'ll write poems about rabbits and leprechauns
I'm sure they would be wonderful. Myth holds many metaphors and much wisdom
Wow, Jabberwocky, this really moved me. I know how difficult it can be to get beyond certain experiences, and I sincerely hope you're finding some peace. Wonderful write, my friend! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
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