Ending of a poem


Have we become less then?
Has time taken that moment from us,
driven connections away and left me unaware
of its passing me?

It is like my mind knows, but my heart refuses.
Dimly my head wants to hide,
in covers rich with scented yesterdays,
and not acknowledge the open cut
that is my distance from you.

I lean my head against the nearest window,
ignoring the reflection of a paler me.
The original is always brighter
but more obviously sad.

I struggle against numbness.
It thinks to aid me by feeling nothing,
but I know numbness is only the pause.
After the pause comes the pain.

I have that feeling that is in-between
and in being in-between, has no definition
or true word to describe it.
It is just there, like a pocket of air,
stealing my contentment,
and leaving only sorrow.

Published by Bexley Benton. (Pen name)

I am B (call me BB and I will gut you) I like daisies, books, and men who understand the wisdom of Kermit the Frog.

2 thoughts on “Ending of a poem

  1. I really enjoyed this – I tend to find that the poems I think I like the most the moment I finish penning them turn out to be the ones with no longevity, whereas when I’m left unsure, uncertain about whether I’ve made my point of the form works then it’s one that I ultimately become more proud of! (Is that just me?)

  2. I agree. The poems I do not feel I got right are generally the ones people tell me touched them most. (shrugs) just goes to prove that viewpoint is crucial. Sometimes it is yours, sometimes others. 🙂

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