Waxing

My voice is infantile
though years are numbered
for what I have been.
My core in rebirth reviews  
what blossoms in rising song.

Where do life's nuances stand
within the breaking rhythm?

Did I matter?  Did my words?

Yet speaking voice chatters
the smile of laughter,
in love for sensual delights;
all of which dupe the thinker
to ingest another day.

To glow within cerise dusk light,
drizzling remnants into eve
where wisps shimmer star fields
of images in shattered glass,
is to have attained.

Do I matter? Do my words?

Still, my reflection mirrors whole
in fear of old cliché.

Listening before the cockcrow,
I wonder if spreading trust
for coming tomorrows
would make today
a yesterday passed?

Copyright © 2007
Pamela A. Lamppa
(All Rights Reserved)




Poetry by Pamela A Lamppa
Read 425 times
Written on 2007-04-16 at 15:45

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