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Open Poetry #37
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The Taste Of Leftover Dreams (revisited)
| Open Poetry #37 |
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The Taste Of Leftover Dreams (revisited) |
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icebox Member Elite
since 2003-05-03
Posts 4383in the shadows 
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I can not sleep tonight. I am beyond tired I think ...I think, that always has been my greatest problem ...I think. There was a time when I turned over every image, every thought of you, until they all were limp worn scraps fading in my hands. Awake or in dreams, I would yearn for your scent I would hunger for your taste. I horded your shared feelings, even those that reflected in my soul without my consent. I was greedy for all the broad landscapes and back alleys of your mind. My ears would ache in a silence that had been filled with your voice. I wandered in a darkness once briefly lit by the fires in your eyes. With nowhere to put down the bitterness I earned, I lived in crowds alone through years we could have filled with your costumes and dreams, your schemes and your faces, with foolishness and majesty instilled with the pleasures that keep the soul alive, but I have grown glad with age for the life you have built; I’ve no doubts about how well you’ll survive. This new path you’re walking shines brightly, I wonder how much you can see, you ask questions that sometimes astonish and I marvel at coincident thoughts, but at times you seem blind to the pathway while the wagons are circling slowly around some parts that have to be free. So, after these new fires are ashes, after your new deal’s gone down, when it feels like your whole world is turning, remember, once I was your own private rodeo clown; if after the next bull has thrown you when you feel the new promises broken, when you’re crying for all life has shown you, you might still hear words that were spoken long ago when we both were younger and the future still offered us hope. Recently, you compared me to wreckage when your life almost spun from control, the good that we once shared now is long gone with the memories that time always steals, our soft nights I know you’ve forgotten, champagne fogs and candle lit meals we ate from one bowl with our fingers, and all of the pillow talks wandered and faded to become tomorrow’s yesterday deals, hope, just like me also now old and forgotten out of style with the dust and the ashes, left behind like the toys and your masks and my rope. ©2006 by icebox |
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| © Copyright 2006 icebox - All Rights Reserved | |||
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passing shadows Member Empyrean
since 1999-08-26
Posts 45577displaced |
I've been wreckage too, my friend a deep and soulful write, this is |
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iliana Member Patricius
since 2003-12-05
Posts 13434USA |
I like what you've done to the original, Mr. C. I have a theory....that empty spot...there's something special to fill it...and actually, I suspect it has already been filled. That's the "trap," isn't it -- the memories remain?  ...jo |
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Poet deVine
Administrator
Member Seraphic
since 1999-05-26
Posts 22612Hurricane Alley |
Well done..but there is one flaw in this...you are not now will you ever be out of style!!  |
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scorpio Member Ascendant
since 2002-10-02
Posts 5178right...there |
Powerful writing icebox!! believe in what your heart feels... |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
Icebox "I know you’ve forgotten, champagne fogs and candle lit meals we ate from one bowl with our fingers, and all of the pillow talks wandered and faded to become tomorrow’s yesterday deals," How sad to have those wonderful things, then loose them. |
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OwlSA Member Rara Avis
since 2005-11-07
Posts 9347Durban, South Africa |
Exquisite, icebox, you write so beautifully about her always, but it worries me that you are in so much pain looking back, that you don't have good moments in your present and looking forward into your future. Sometimes nature can comfort well, if you let it. Perhaps you are happier than we think and perhaps it is just that you don't write about your happy moments. I hope that is the case. - Owl |
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The Lady Member Rara Avis
since 2005-12-26
Posts 7634The Southwest |
"There was a time when I turned over every image, every thought of you, until they all were limp worn scraps fading in my hands. Awake or in dreams, I would yearn for your scent I would hunger for your taste" Oh to be loved like that. Sigh... It's a yearning, not forgetting, poem icebox and it's just lovely. |
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