once upon a time there was a little girl
who lived in this house; a little girl with
big brown eyes and beautiful brown curls
and a heart the size of the sun that she
wore, unguarded, on her sleeve. the world
was her friend, and more importantly, she
was the world's friend. with nothing more
than a sweet smile and the fresh fragile
innocence of a young child, she was a
friend of all things. everything was good,
and there was love in her existence.
at least, that's how i think she was.
her image is rather lost now, a smattering
of dusty photographs and too-small
sweaters and toys that all once
had names. there are coloring books
that bring back memories through the
form of odd smells, there are the
life-stained toys and blankets from
her past. but it's not enough to bring her back.
have you ever tried to raise the dead?
and i don't mean the biological dead, i mean
that spiritually dead, the ones who peer at
you with eyes rimmed with the blackness
of a thousand sleepless nights and whose
hearts radiate the sickness of a broken soul.
i mean the ghosts of our past, the rooms
that we don't go into because that's where
they were and their prescence is there but
you choose to ignore it. you choose to ignore it
because you know it's never going to be
enough to bring her back. she is gone.
maybe she is only gone into the depths
of past and recorded time, but none
the less, she is gone. and whatever you
try to do, you cannot bring her back.
i've tried, so hard i've tried. i've put on
her sweater and sat in her chair, i've listened
to her songs and played with her toys.
i have tried to take the same amount of
satisfaction in everything as she once did
and i find i cannot. she was a simpler
creature, one who was immature but
one who was innocent and had never
known any worse pain than that one
time where a wasp stung her in the
center of her right palm. she'd never
had her heart broken. she'd never
given her heart to someone for them
to break, for that matter. and this girl,
this poor beautiful girl... she's lost.
dear child, my daughter via time,
i am so sorry for what you have become.
YOU ARE READING
visions
Poesíathe thoughts in my head, however disorganized [warning, it can get heavy.] -- poetry #43 random #86