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Jan 2013
Forever: it is not a word I know,

Its bounding aches, its tugging groans,

Whereof I speak, thou knowest not,

My mem’ry fleeting, forlorn and rot,

Because this is of tales of my naught,

I live on only to be here, forgot.

-

-

I have saved the life of a child who shall never know my name,

The love I had for my Love, doth she not want to feel again,

I’ve fought for allies, only to now be believed of conspiracy

I’ve liberated my beliefs, only to now be under new tyranny.

I may die any day here, perhaps with the coming sunset,

But in my name and mem’ry, a candle forgotten to be lit.

Time is mortally timeless in this solipsistic reign,

I write my tragedies knowing not a person will feel the same.

-

The ghosts of faces taunt me in my regretful sleep,

Begrudging me to hide my face from all distaste and weep,

Although this feeling flourishes in this daunting midnight air,

The daylight only brings me knowledge of my true despair.

For even my children, even if I were to have them now,

Would forget my name also, I’d be but a whisper upon a cloud.

-

I could go about this life living in the best way that I could,

If all was start over, the same mistakes I made, I would,

But it does not change the fact that no one ever my name will know,

Or remember it with time if even fondness were to grow.

For it is a curse that deaf is eternity,

To my name and quill, knowledge that this woe is me.

-

My love will be forgotten,

For woman, for warmth, for longing,

My words will be forgotten,

In ink, in music, in harmony,

My breath will be forgotten,

For I leave nothing, and nothing again,

My name will be forgotten,

Knowing this makes me insane.

-

Forever: it is a word I will never know.

Love has left and died, and it seems it always will,

I don’t deserve the music I process in my head every hour of the moon and sun.

I don’t possess the strength or skill to properly put what feelings lie in my breast on to parchment.

I cannot scribe a good enough requiem, and I certainly leave no worthy revelation.

Forget my name, and remember those worthy. Forget my work, and remember the ones that fill your heart with happiness and inspiration, for no one need look upon mine and see the struggles of someone that ne’er need complain, or deserve to.

-

It is what I hear all the hours of any of my wretched days;

The cacophony that is the choir singing hymns of me being forgotten.
Andrew P Marheine
Written by
Andrew P Marheine  Richmond, VA
(Richmond, VA)   
882
 
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