Every now and then,
The joyful laughter of playing children
Echoes through the walls,
Lingering within the paint,
A constant reminder
Of a far more distant childhood
-
Every so often, winds,
Holding a ravel of hair, insisting,
To permeate through decadence
And the reasons why nothing is here
-
But alone in my despair,
In these enclosures of buried engravings
Lost words and painful memories
Lying beyond experiences of the world,
In many ways I cease to be alive
When my mind only envisions
And my eyes can only drift beside...
- - - - -
Copyright © Juan Antonìo Thomas, 2004
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