They’ve escaped me again.
Fugitive minutes.
The little devils are hiding.
Under the carpet maybe,
Or under the bed.
I can hear them scamper
On the outskirts of my psyche.
They taunt me in undertones.
They jeer at me sideways.
I hate them.
I keep them safe.
I could recapture
These impish moments,
Dig beneath the laundry piles,
Sift through the cupboards,
Entice them with sweets
And reminiscence.
Of course then I’d have to face them
And they have ugly faces.
So I’ll slink into the present,
And hide myself instead.
1 comment:
Ugly faces indeed. I've never been one for reminiscing; when I think about the past sometimes all I can see are my greatest hits of embarrassing moments and selfish behavior. Whereas the future always holds the potential for redemption.
Then again, our movements through time are what give us the depth of experience necessary to do things like write rich and deeply layered poetry. If all those moments of your past had been ideal and perfect then your poetry would be all about rainbows and teddy bears, and who wants to read that?
No one, that's who. So, I guess what I'm saying is "thanks for taking one for the team."
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