An Attic Strewn
My mind is an attic strewn
a poignant blend of times
sighing as a dying wheeze
angry, sad, boring times
trying to be forgot
‘till a happening tweaks
the moment from bedrock.
You are a time I'll never forget
never lay to rest.
We were the best and the worst
and always at our own behest.
Ours were the shortest of times-
the most infuriating, brutally honest
meeting of minds time
Of days kissed sublime.
But there came a time too soon
surprise, shock, ominous concern
spiraling into fearful when the specter
of violence revealed a compelling scenario.
It was then I forced my heart
to withdraw from such folly
though it yet laments
'Would that love could reason with rage...'
October 4,1989
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem