Free-falling impressions
through the hourglass of countless days,
a multitude of Sunday afternoons
fuse into one -
a time when time can linger,
pause in corridors of nevermore,
glancing out of mirrors
on imaginary translucent walls.
A wraith with features indistinct,
face saddened by its own attrition,
melancholy, permeating
edges of the gaze like fog,
wanders once-familiar alleys,
hungry as a homeless dog
on the scent of memory,
time's only mortal adversary.
Parks hold notes of children's laughter,
warping gladness into sob;
stabbing images corrode
with sudden consciousness of loss.
Love, the fabled time-machine
that bends the moment to its will
sees all its incandescence fade
to last faint glimmer on the sill.
In elegiac mood
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105103100264
Свидетельство о публикации №105103100264
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Unbelievable. Your poetry rocks my world ;-)))))))))))
Кертис Эйлес 31.10.2005 09:42 • Заявить о нарушении
Кертис Эйлес 31.10.2005 09:42 • Заявить о нарушении