I don't often write rhymed verse . . . this one wrote itself.
How little is left of all he once knew;
Some few things where his mind now wanders
He remembers, and so must still be true.
But there is much he believes no longer . . .
Nor certain he cares to now if he could;
And, but for that, he might now be stronger
In some way he may have once understood.
Memories tire of their coming and going,
Life wearies of too much truth and regret;
There's a kind of comfort in finally knowing
What to remember . . . what to forget.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 444 times
Written on 2010-12-18 at 14:41
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Soul-weary
He sits alone and quietly pondersHow little is left of all he once knew;
Some few things where his mind now wanders
He remembers, and so must still be true.
But there is much he believes no longer . . .
Nor certain he cares to now if he could;
And, but for that, he might now be stronger
In some way he may have once understood.
Memories tire of their coming and going,
Life wearies of too much truth and regret;
There's a kind of comfort in finally knowing
What to remember . . . what to forget.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 444 times
Written on 2010-12-18 at 14:41
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Lawrence Beck |
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John Ashleigh |
