Sunday, February 26, 2017

Written, a poem


Each memory has turned to words,
fixed its form upon the page.
How might I disagree with what
is written, all in twelve-point truth?

Too late to change a single phrase,
re-remember all that was;
I can only read again,
choosing to believe it so.

These are the lines I wrote to play
my role, the poignant platitudes
attached to every mist of you.
Each word has turned to memory.

Stephen Brooke ©2017

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