Memory Stands Like A Scarecrow.
As I wonder, where the nice fragrance of love is gone,
That spilled from the crimson flower of life.
Now when I sweep away the broken glass of the past,
The memory haunts back doing icicle,
In the inner dome of my mind.
Memory stands like a scarecrow,
In the middle of my path,
And diverts me to the realities of the present,
I walk past the doors of an empty heart,
And counts the fallen willow leaves.
Monday, March 1, 2021
Topic(s) of this poem: memories,past