Memories

They ran, those memories, like frightened children,
wanting only to hide from forces that they did not
understand, or recognise, because they had been
hidden – so many distant truths were not denied.

They huddled in dark corners of our minds, and
hearts, hoping they could find a place to settle,
drumming dusty fingers on cold, hard floors,
tracing patterns on unhallowed, frozen ground.

They waited, breathing slowly, tasting feeble hope,
as days drew into months and dribbled, darkened years,
for nothing can be lost which once was found and lived,
though vision dims when darkness denies true sight.

They ran, those memories, like frightened children,
and yet their laughter rang like bells in echoed realms,
as racing onward, through the playing fields of destiny,
they hopped, across the chalk-drawn games of life.

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About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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