Category Archives: Past

Sins of the Youth

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It had fallen to disrepair.

No amount of plywood or glue
could mask the evil of its use.
No paint could cover the putrid stench
of the blood left cold, a thirst left quenched.
No body, nor mind, nor fool tender at heart
could spend yet a moment without a play in the part.
No secrets left whispered, no vows left unbound,
it had fallen to disrepair, and not a one made a sound.

The sin of the world, closed up behind doors,
secrets of the youth spun on webs like before
with spiders as keepers and snakes as their guards.
Sins of the youth, secrets of the scarred.

It had fallen to disrepair.
And as sins escaped,
no one was left to care.

Unwitting Illusion

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The trees watched us grow,
and the silence sped near,
the moon passed our hide out
year after year.
The sun went down on sorrows
and anger thrown high,
and rain spent the mornings
watching arguments die.

Tables together, our seats beside each,
alone in the world, or so we’d beseech.
Our friends drew us nearer to what I called home,
but as the dawn broke, you left me alone.

Flown high on the swingsets,
jumped into the air,
challenges, obstacles,
trials of error.
Climbed to the top
and took the castle for me,
until my flag was torn
into a dozen pieces.

You took dominance,
demanded I obey,
friends forever, you said,
and then walked away.

The wood and the bark
of the trees in our home,
spent night after night
mournfully alone.
I didn’t return.
Didn’t think it would help,
you left me still standing,
but with little else.

The winds whispered rumors
spread wide through the wood.
Lost faces in tatters
of where we once stood.

A ghost girl with a sigh, a tear in her eye,
watching you walk away
and fissure the night.

And day rose again, and the rumors were true,
it seemed the ghost girl had truly lost you.
But she’s still stand strong, no more tears, no more lies.
If you don’t remember, then neither will I.

The Grass Will Grow

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A shovel deep in stone,
hits bottom
then keeps going.
Tossed aside
the gravel and dirt,
delving deeper into the earth.

Placed in a box
with a tight-locked lid,
demons of another bid.
Forgotten.

Or–to be forgotten.

Passerby look me in the eyes,
and cocks his head to one side.
“Burying the past,”
I tell him.

He understands.

And in a few months,
grass will grow
to cover this new-leased

grave.

Okay, okay, last post of the day. I can’t help it, if I have inspiration, it has to go somewhere, and it just doesn’t seem right to lock it away in a notebook where I will be the only one to see it until I die. Poetry is meant to be seen, to be read, to be heard.

Simple explanation, the narrator is trying to get rid of her past. And in reality, this does work. If you have a particularly bad memory and an object from that moment, if you bury it, it really does give the impression of being more free. Just a thought.