Nostalgia bellows in the dark
Like thunder of the mind & yet
A pensive poet carries on,
Inured to the long, lonely night.
He scribbles each word as he braves
A puddle of forgotten dreams;
Abreast with every memory
While slowly sinking in the slush.
Encompassed in sweet solitude,
Emotions cascade outward from
The crevices of his heart in
The form of ink & metaphors.
In every quatrain, he evokes
A plaintive shard of history.
Though shatters of their former selves,
Their essence is immune to time.
For in his agony,
This poet created
A humble masterpiece.
“Pain is filtered in a poem so that it
becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.”
-Mark Strand
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