Finishing

Sometimes you just want to write,
its like a well, it bursts yet you don't
even know if words will help.

I write words, quirky I suppose
like my walks through the park to work,
my thoughts, my footsteps,
the leaves of Autumn have covered
my time here, is a covered print.

I watch the sea, I taste spume as it froths,
I count the white horses, they roll on the shore.

I walk through the graveyard, I don't have charcoal
I don't etch their inscriptions, I just see faded faces.

Those are things I write about, nothing really
They are words though, mine and here they lie.

I wish I believed that all would be ok
but I grow more distant by the day,
I feel the self of me, just disappearing
lost in minutae like an ambling stream.

Some don't finish symphonies,
I just don't finish poems.




Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 616 times
Written on 2012-12-13 at 20:34

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countryfog
The old saying "it's the journey not the destination" is true because to think otherwise about life or writing would be too depressing . . . let someone else write 'The End' when we are gone.
2012-12-14


M Heathcote
Nice poem, and the ending gives it bags of charm. :)
2012-12-14



What's so great about finishing? The stream ambles, life ambles, there's no end to it, until there is. One poem leads to another, it's all one poem, really. I love this ambling poem. It makes sense to me.

This took me back to a park I walked through as a kid, walking to school. School was an adventure, I liked the walk. Especially in spring and the onset of baseball season.

See how your ambling led to mine? Good poem, thank you.
2012-12-14