Remembrance is a fickle thing
A seeming love, and sometimes tame
A look into the window yours
For a moment thought forever lost
But never should you tarry here
A word of caution, a fleeting thought
For once did I find myself
staring in for such a while
That the sun began to set
and shadows stretched upon the wall
And something from a nightmare past
a terror I had long forgot
Put its hand upon the glass
And stared back out at me
So always, please remember this
however lovely should the sight appear
Do not stay here very long
Listen briefly to that soothing song
And be gone from here
Lest that creature who hides in the shadow of joy
Figment of forgotten pain
leave its place at the window
And scratch upon the door
We can never wholly leave this place
where something guides us back
So come without reluctance
And mayhap for a while stay
And peer in through the sunlit glass
Smile, and then look away
Find within yourself
A place in our reality
Looking back, I cannot help but hope and hear
The faintest echoing chord
The quiet notes of music
Which give life authentic feel
A lovely kind of certainty
Existence in a waking dream
-
Author:
Severus Alexander (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 24th, 2016 07:59
- Comment from author about the poem: Remembered sorrow is the only kind~
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 24
- User favorite of this poem: ThePearlPoet.
Offline)
Comments4
Severus thanks again. Though we know each other not, we have the same mud on our boots.
Thank you, LaRose.
I would draw your attention to a line by Robert Frost;
"Men work together.... Whether they work together or apart."
Although, in theory, many things separate us..
...be they culture, age, ideal, or simply distance...
I do believe that we write from similar places;
Similar places within the heart~
So, In a way, I do know you.
On my boots...
Age and rough terrain have rendered them worn, but the leather is still crisp, and sturdy.
The soles are supple still, and have molded to the bottoms of my feet over years of use.
A mixture of mud and dry leaves is plastered to the bottom of each, which has consistently resisted cleaning for quite some time.
Upon further examination, the
leaves are not the muddy brown of decaying foliage; they are a crisp, golden yellow.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood~
~And sorry I could not travel both..
I looked down one as far as I could~
~To where it bent in the undergrowth...
- "The road not taken,"
By Robert Frost.
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