Monday, August 18, 2014

Is it still me?

Don’t open your eyes
Try not to see
Things are no longer
Where things ought to be

That voice—is it her?
Behind a closed door
She calls you a stranger
Your mother no more

Breathe through the moment
Turn, turn your eyes
The past you imagined
Was all lies, lies, lies

Things are no longer
Where things ought to be
Who is this stranger
Is it still me?




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4 comments:

  1. Heartfelt poem. I totally get it...really good.
    If we are an accumulation of everything we do, imagine if after all you did you weren't the real you x

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    Replies
    1. Oh thank you Gerry! So rewarding when simple words, simple rhythms invoke the same feeling in writer and reader

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  2. Just this morning I heard an elderly tell of how her husband was drifting into senility.
    So the poem could be for her, read this way.
    Who is this stranger?
    Is it still He?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. So true, it could definitely be read this way.

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