Tuesday, February 12, 2013


The days had staggered slowly on,
and dragged dark memories,
of moments long forgotten;
of dreams which still might be.
The pen had scrawled across the page,
of mind's erratic hopes,
that there could be deliverance;
there was no need to grow.
But huddled in the wings of time,
the past could peer within,
and whisper bitter, costumed truth;
reality played grim.
Until the curtains would be drawn,
and you had called an end,
to face the facts of who you were;
then nothing could begin.
In taking sips from life's deep cup,
and reading scattered leaves,
you found that it was you, not I,
who brought to birth such grief.


  1. it is a hard realization...when you realize that it is your own fault for the grief...

  2. We make our own bed, reap what we sow, its a long lesson. Thanks for sharing.

    Ken Higginson

  3. I especially like the flawless flow of rhyme and meter in this poem. Well-penned.