SoulReserve

Where do poems go to die?

I imagine
this
beautiful place,
just below a cliff,
with a river
running by,
where all the words,
poems
and thoughts,
go to die,
Tumble forgotten,
growing old
fading with age,
or too brittle
obsolete
and uncertain,
some bloated with rage,
silly,
premature,
immature,
few very vague,
incomplete
pretentious or staged,
many literally not formed yet,

Un-remembered,
they huddle
in their absentia,
living out their
final days,
in the relative calm
away from the minds,
that always chased them,
chastised them.
Here, alive in their holed recesses
they lie
languid
unfamiliar
and spent
in morbid fear
of being unearthed
again.

© SoulReserve 2016

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