Dear Diaries
By Silver Spun Sand
Thu, 23 Jan 2014
- 758 reads
4 comments
I know it’s been a while, and I’ve been
going to write, again, for such a long,
long, time. Too painful...after, though,
to carry on, if you know what I mean.
She wants to read them, one day, do you see?
When I’m of no more substance than
the salt on her cheeks – dried beneath her eyes
even though the writing, therein, speaks of strange things,
like a tin with a picture of a palm-tree on the lid,
used to be my dad's, with odd cuff-links in;
those stretchy, silver bands he used to keep
his shirt sleeves up with. Marbles – ever
one of my foibles – no two the same,
like snowflakes I’ve kept, even after
they melted.
Junkshop finds...clock-keys...button-cards,
and hat-pins – knickknacks and caravans,
creased, black leather holdalls jam-packed
with broken promises from brown-skinned
boys in Y-fronts.
Dawn skies that stumble, yawning,
over morning’s new-dug graves.
Confessions and obsessions – cryptic
clues to stay unsolved...not leading anywhere,
anyway.
Pages torn, pages faded, pages missing,
she’ll hunt for, and never find; beat herself
up about – mourn their loss, as happens,
always, in life’s stories, be it hers, or theirs,
or mine.
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Always the absent words that
Always the absent words that torment people. The imaginings of what was there, what if, what was-es and why dids. A very stark, sharp piece that exposes human nature in all its inner madness. P.S Tina, you're the only person I've ever heard mention keeping snowflakes after they've melted. I kept handfuls of snow in Tupperware boxes until the water turned green.
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A never-ending cycle.
Permalink Submitted by Parson Thru on
A never-ending cycle. Wonderful thoughts: reflective and contemplative. Beautifully / delicately written. Very much enjoyed Tina.
Parson Thru
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