Each Friday I post a poem, if I have one.
Oh, why am I still moved to silence—tears—
By lines of poesy that my hand set down
So may months—or even years—ago?
When that strong passion held me in its grip
I boud its torrent ito metered verse,
Trying to find the words for what I saw,
But time soon stole it, like your presence, from me.
Now I but, listless, drift from day to day—
Yet when I read or think my words again
They grip me as the sight of you once did,
Or as a vivid dream holds fast my mind
when a too-early morning bids me wake.
I wrote this last night, when I was trying to get to sleep but kept awake by lines of my own poetry coming back to me, as happens far too often. Perhaps, as with the recurring dreams that ceased once I wrote poems about them, having written this will make me sleep easier. The title didn’t suggest itself until just now.
In any case, as always, I earnestly welcome your comments, suggestions, questions, critique, or other feedback about this or any other part of my work. You can also read other poems I’ve posted here on my blog.
This poem is also posted on my wiki.