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reflecting on how fleeting is this life
with thoughts of they who have left
reaction's mixed
time
has made it seem alright
despite remembering
the anguish
of bereft
and realisation they'd write on my page
no more
I’ve intuition
they have found new light
acceptance has insidiously crept
into my existence
with setting suns
but sometimes
my innate beliefs take flight
excruciatingly expose regret
a deep 'I miss you'
hollow
in my chest
as I acknowledge
it is too late
to tell them
to know them I was blessed
.
Style / type:
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity):
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage:
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Comments
Seren
Fri, 2012-11-09 08:30
Dear Judd
I cant offer you anything constructive for this poem its painfully sad its just my take
time
has made it seem alright
despite remembering
the anguish
of bereft
and realisation they'd write on my page
no more
I’ve intuition
they've found new light
acceptance has insidiously crept
into my existence
with setting suns
my favourite Stanza's
love n hugs JC xxx
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” — W.B. Yeats
judyanne
Tue, 2012-11-13 04:16
thanks very much jc
for the very kind comment
love judd
xxx
'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)
scribbler
Fri, 2012-11-09 10:06
Hi Judy
we run about in diapers..blink..then we're in school..blink...next comes marriage...blink...then the passing of friends and family...blink...until those remembered outnumber those known...blink...at last the hoped for reuniting on that other plane.
line 7...maybe berievement instead of bereft?...................stan
judyanne
Wed, 2012-11-14 07:29
hi stan
thanks for the read, comments and suggestion
- i prefer 'bereft' to 'bereavement' - one is an emotion the other a state ...
love judy
xxx
'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)