Forgotten
To be remembered.
Is that the meaning of life?
Is aspiring to be greater,
A meaningless prize?
Immortality is,
A beautiful a lie.
For everything I touch,
Is both dead and alive.
The flowers in winter,
They shrivel and die.
But unlike me,
They will live again.
And then I’ll say,
“Hello my old friends!”
I’ll speak to them
As if they could
Understand or hear,
As I grow old and
Age another year,
Realizing someday that
I will not return.
My breaths turn to words,
Inscribed on a page
My thoughts,
The forgotten themes
Of another age
My aspirations;
Merely a dream…
Will I be forgotten
And laid to waste?
A simple tale told?
As the Generations
Come and go
So too,
Would everything I know?
Like soft music I fade,
Not quite dead,
Not quite alive,
To be heard,
That’s why I’m alive.
To be remembered
By anyone who would
Dare to peer inside.
Oh to be cherished,
Not forgotten,
Remembered,
Amongst all things.
To be as the flowers;
Renewed by
The dawn of spring.
J.A. Wine
