Wednesday Meditations
11/19 2022
The sins of youth,
How played out over the memories of the present,
Echoed throughout the pangs of desire,
The silver partings of my hair.
Friends come and go, as my eyes stare at me
Everlasting through the morning mirror.
Receiveing the present to tell myself
That, hey, I wasn't too bad after all.
Hormones, in fact, tell my tale for me.
But figure my spirit everlasting,
And my regrets even more so.
I am not myself, yet, find me grasping
That age-old tale.
The woman, as myself, trying to rip one single hair
To redeem myself.
As lost as the rest of themselves,
When the crow comes a'callin'.
My writing's an ephereal tale,
As whispers in the snow,
Falling quietly on the windowsills.
How soft, that light, against the reflection
Of pages not yet turned.
The reflection of my future memory of your body
Lying against mine when the sun shines through Wednesday,
On that solemn winter morn.