I shall miss this place
When I am gone.
This occupation of space,
Behind which lies,
The thought's narration.
That ardent striving to be usual,
As though it were some lofty goal
When it is only the lazy familiarity
Of routine and ritual,
Which sometimes cracks open
Before me,
To reveal a hidden jewel.
The symbolism of fatherhood,
That shimmering burning song
Which belongs
To the very young.
The aging teachers, who bring
Tempering to,
How it's sung.
My hand in your
Artisanal hand,
Which showed me
How to build
A home.
The friends and family
Who shine love on me,
Despite me
Being myself.
I shall miss this place
When I am gone.
This occupation of space,
Behind which lies,
The thought's narration.
YOU ARE READING
Scribblings
PuisiWords arranged in a funny order. Poems about my view of reality and how my inner fantasy world colours it with strange tinges. I love discussions about concepts and ideas so please feel free to comment. © 2018 Brian Lynch
