She sat and watched the suns
Come and go as if they were
Strangers passing on the bitter streets:
A nod, a glance, perhaps a smile.
They rose in the levelled east,
Fought their way to the highs of their days,
Then struggled to climb each obstacle,
The mountains of the west.
She watched from the window
The porch and the gate
As the clock stole the hours,
Spirited them away,
And filed them under ‘lost’.
Emerald vines grew like memories
Creeping slowly over the garden fence,
Tendril-fingers seeping into the grain
Tenderly choking the life unlived.
She watched the marks of the years
Engrave themselves into her hands,
Pathways followed and gone,
And so many dreamed,
Her face the scorched and dried
Map of ages,
Marked, but abandoned before the mark of treasure
Had burned itself into her.
And the suns still came
And the suns still died,
And…
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This poem sounds more depressing today. I guess I’m back to sombre me.
Choking the life unlived…
Her glass is definitely half emty, if not completely.
Either way, it’s a beautiful poem, Chris.
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A wonderful contrast in emotions! Thank you, B, lovely to see how moods affect our interpretation of things.
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More that we’d like to admit.
It’s all subjective after all.
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How true!
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A small cottage in a wild garden. A face at the window, always. This is what I thought of when I read this beautiful piece.
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Thank you, I appreciate you both reading and taking the time to leave your thoughts. Hopefully the darkness behind the scene also comes through.
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Absolutely.
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☺
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