Nostalgia | ✔

Hallucination

this marble bench
so old, ever so cold,
is densely crowded
with the pastiche
of broken memories
that claw each other
for all of them
do not fit on this
so old, ever so cold
little marble bench

in this struggle
of fitting together
they finally morph
into a lonely ghost
of a young lass, look!
oh look at her eyes!
so empty yet full
of tears 'n' loss

her stare follows
the dirt scattered
all the way down
her memory lane
oh and amidst this
cloud of risin' dust
she sees a silhouette
of a small happy girl
dancin' in the rain
with her frail arms
spread out as wings
of a songbird, look!
isn't she a passerine?
for she's ordinary
like half of all the
simple bird species
look...so isn't she?

but can you hear
the ring in her laugh,
the splash of water
in the rain puddles,
the pitter patter,
pitter patter,
of heavenly drops
and that harmonious
tinkle of her anklets
oh can you hear it?

and can you see
the soft iridescence;
the rainbowlike play
of colors in raindrops
as they trickle down
her porcelain neck
fallin' down the ends
of her golden ringlets
and look at her skirt
that's all soaked up
but swirls nonetheless
in a mirage of dreams
as a phantasmagoria
oh can you see it?

you can't but it does
that lonely ghost of
a young lass with eyes
oh so empty yet full
of tears and low loss
can see it all, see it all
so it gets up and tries
to walk over to her
and embrace it all
the soft silhouette of
a small happy girl
dancing in the rain

what a hallucination!
oh how they melt
in the haunting arms
of the cycle of time
like a shimmerin' liquid
until their astray souls
are absolutely nothin'
but forgotten raindrops
lying in dirty puddles
from which, the water
travels to the edge of
this marble bench
so old, ever so cold,
and densely crowded
with the pastiche
of broken memories
. . . . . . . . once again.

Author's Note

That's the story of our lives. One day, all your memories gather up on an old bench and morph into a ghost that you've turned into with the passage of time. Oh, how you peek back at the memory of who you used to be. A small happy girl dancing in the rain. A little merry boy riding a bicycle. Oh the longing! How you wish to walk back and embrace your old self..but all in vain. For as soon as you touch it, the lovely image of your past, it melts under the curse of the ghost that you've become until all the broken memories find their way back to the old bench to morph into the ghost of a young lass/lad..the ghost of you. What a painful cycle. That's the curse of time. You can never turn it back.

So stop trying to turn it back. Why lie on this old bench? Why die everyday looking at that happy little girl dancing in the rain? Can't you see that swing between the trees? It's real. Walk over and sit on it, dear. Someday, somebody's gonna pass by and see you smiling all by yourself on this swing. That day, that somebody is going to come and push the swing for you. You're gonna soar up high in the sky. Don't give up already. Look at the swing. It's hanging right ahead of you. Don't look back. Give it a chance. It's going to work out. :')❤

How was the poem? I was going to end the author's note after the initial paragraph that was written by myself. But the second paragraph is the answer of my conscience to myself. The voice of my soul that teaches me everyday..to never give up. To keep holding on. So even if you have a voice of your own, don't forget to listen to the whisper of your soul. Ever.

Much love,
Hazel *-*