Ruth Walters (London, U.K.)
When an old man tells you how it was,
whispers secrets ne’er forgotten,
past torments and wars not won
deeds he did, best left unsung,
good times, bad times,
dreams all drifting, sifting through
his life, well lived in.
When he tells you that and more,
tells you of old battle scores.
Don’t dismiss it, crit’ it, diss it,
from his heart, condemn it
for it was his life, sweet child.
His to own and his to moan of,
each and every precious moment.
When you reach a certain time
in your lifespan, I in mine
you’ll empathize, identify
and then you might confess your crimes
upon a parchment, once so white
and it will be a gift, insight -
left behind at your demise.
Comments about this poem (Memories by Ruth Walters )
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