Nothing – who ever knew that it is so dense?
The head feels like a cotton-filled bag.
Maybe it all could make sense,
But a brief moment hence –
One that seems like a long drag –
Reality throws up a white flag.
Nothing – it’s the pictures in their black frames,
Pictures of broken fences and snow,
The vague reminiscence of the lost games,
The once-meaningful names,
Dull arrows shot from a bow
Left back in the long-ago.
Nothing – flowers bloom in the distant fields,
The fields where children play…
Once ours were the highest yields,
The thickest shields -
Except they were made of clay,
As the song would famously say.
Nothing – amazing how it gives the wrong clue.
It’s probably time to rest.
Thought I could smile thinking of you
Or at least cry thinking of you…
But each sun makes its way to the west.
Nothing – it knows best.
Nothing
© Copyright: Евгения Саркисьянц, 2013
Свидетельство о публикации №113111502252
Свидетельство о публикации №113111502252
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Your work has this magical quality of transforming bitterness into melancholy, and I'd rather feel the latter than the former any day.
At first, I thought there was something wrong with the penultimate verse. Surely it should be "...its way to the West"! Then I realized that it is not your capitalization, but my perception of the world that is askew, and sometimes a direction is just a direction. :-)
Велиандр 08.12.2013 11:35 • Заявить о нарушении
At first, I thought there was something wrong with the penultimate verse. Surely it should be "...its way to the West"! Then I realized that it is not your capitalization, but my perception of the world that is askew, and sometimes a direction is just a direction. :-)
Велиандр 08.12.2013 11:35 • Заявить о нарушении
На это произведение написаны 3 рецензии, здесь отображается последняя, остальные - в полном списке.