Inverness, FL, USA
By way of introduction, not explanation, I
must tell my readers here that the following
poem is pure phantasy, an example of role
playing. After all, actors and novelists do
the same. Or should we all write only pure
factual autobiographies? What sayest?
I will remember, and repent, forever,
the night we met again, deciding
to reminisce, together, about old times,
while strolling, together, along the beach
where we first met and kissed...
The night was getting older,
and so, it seemed, were we,
together once again, but each engulfed
by memories, of different times,
and different places,
A misty moon, reluctantly, kept shining,
for us alone, there on that empty beach,
the breeze was getting bolder, hence
on an impulse we embraced for warmth,
to find we had not gotten older,
and so we kissed, till time
When I woke up again, I was alone...
I cried on that forsaken, cold, dark beach,
and listening to the crashing surf,
I heard this bitter old refrain:
"Each dashing wave that hurries towards shore
will break apart,
each reckless kiss that asks for more
will break a heart."
[This message has been edited by Willem (edited 12-16-1999).]