As I falter by the wayside of my Welsh great great great great grandparents, I do indeed relish my Anglican roots.

This is for my friends who keep the 'hurting' at bay... J


Hurting

Looking down towards tomorrow,
A song, a phase of memories and sorrow,
His tears trailed beside the flailing sunset.

T-shirt stained with dreams tonight,
His breath finds no place to falter,
Dying again upon this frosty earth.

'Hurting' is a place where dreams live;
No time nor need to hear the sermons
That race from someone else's life.

The hurt is free to tear me apart,
But you can't cut the memory
That rips at my body tonight.

Let me rest upon your chest,
Forgive my indiscretions'
While you set my soul free.




Poetry by Morpheus
Read 1785 times
Written on 2012-01-15 at 08:18

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Kathy Lockhart
The sadness in this poetry is deeply moving. You have given so many images to bring the reader into the distress of the writer. I feel the memories are not all good but there are some that are warm and safe. Lying on the chest of a memory is like lying on the grave of someone close to you who you loved and trusted. Those are the memories you want to hold on to. I remember after my mother died, I went to the site where she was buried and I laid my body on "hers." That may sound strange but it was a way I found comfort in all my memories of her. Your choice of words opened up the poem where I felt it's soul. Thank you for posting this. :) kathy
2014-05-27


Stan Cooper The PoetBay support member heart!
Hi Morpheus...enjoyed your write very much...

When we get right down to it, when everything else is leaving or gone, what else do we have, and should be glad of it, but
memories

Stan
2012-08-18


ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
This I totally understand.
I to have Welsh ansterry my greet grand father , his wife was souern Irish , he beet her and his children for sons to doulters . One moring ast brakfast , his so Jo , laither my grandfather. Spoke at the table. My nasty gret grandfather lep on to the table grabing a loog ment for the fier. He beet his son. His wife , my greet grandmother , a woman of greet curege. That night gatherd the 6 chikdren and fled. Chosing poverty overa life of violance. From that day violance with in the family became history. It more my Irish roots I like to recal and keep alive.
Ken D Williams
2012-02-28


liz munro The PoetBay support member heart!
I don't quite understand it,
but I like it's flow

*BOOKMARKED*

~L.~
2012-01-15