yet the words
still lost their
candour and purity
and that was
when you feel your pieces are not that sincere anymore, when you are slowly and unconsciously writing to impress, not to express. that is when a poet is ailing.
I remember peace as it was,
imperfect and flawed but mine to keep.
Rainy days were greeted with awe,
nights were adorned with harmonious sleep.
I remember the sky as it was,
clouded and red but mine to keep.
Hosting the dreams of the millions below
a citadel for lovers dying to meet.
I remember the flowers as they were,
young and naive but mine to keep.
Blooming on a dead man's accord,
his widow, beside, eyeing her treats.
I remember smiles as they were,
corrupted and vile but mine to keep.
They seem much too busy now
aiding the faces in hiding their grief.
I remember freedom as it was,
constrained and limited but mine to keep.
Imprisoned in homes and imprisoned within self,
silence wages wars on my defying speech.
I remember faith as it was,
blind and delusive but mine to keep.
Lost to the times and the wars of men
that laughed at us, finding belief.
— The End —