Death – A Poetic Representation of the Meaning of Our Most Valuable Possession

Death – A Poetic Representation of the Meaning of Our Most Valuable Possession

I have a picture in my memory,

You were a tangible figure sitting cross-legged near the window of my mother’s birth home.

Now, what was once blinding pipe smoke is a clear view of the place where you used to roam.

Powerfully broad and snowy-white, looking judiciously through the window of your past,

An old angel, with half his might, observing patiently the days as they pass, and contently awaiting his last.

I have a picture of you in my memory,

You were a beacon of peace, which made a resonation in the soul of a young boy,

Having never taken a lash out of reason or need, remained a person unannounced to greed,

Which was not what was said of yourself. Not that an opinion was needed, I was a being of joy,

Whenever placed in the vicinity of your presence, allowed by my carrier, the product of your seed.

I have but a picture in my memory,

The feeling of your presence has disappeared, the picture of you is now a memory, by intensity mild.

Upon moving the picture from my projecting eyes, there is no you, no smoke, and no longer an observing child.

I have grown and witnessed the world which you perceived, through my own sensory,

And have made a man out of a boy, but still, of you, I shall always have a picture in my memory.

I have your picture in my memory,

And celebrate it as a cherished one, as a reciprocated prayer, abundantly, galore,

Victimized by my impatience, but represented likewise to the symbol of a crow in the poem before.

This is not a statement, but a hope, that I have done such in this poem of strife,

And simultaneously given glow to the meaning of life.

I have a picture in my memory.

A memory is a visual stimulus of a past reality, in-between the eyes which see not that anymore,

Life is a beginning of a blessing which works in ways to help us learn, feel and fall in love, and last, before,

It is all taken away from the recipient by the giver in the moment of unscripted death, therefore,

Live it with a passion, in proper perspective, so that a death can be just that, and a memory and nothing more.

 поезија , poetry , death ,

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