I sit here by this loom —
Hand making, hand weaving fineries
For our sort beneath the moon.
It is quiet here, absent are those memories
Which once took up space within my cranium,
The mind of mine where thoughts permeated of you and I,
Once alive, now we have died.
Interjections? No, not anymore.
I don’t allow them to rise forth,
Grinning ghosts and ghouls once dragging
Like a wedding veil or dress trailing upon
The rocky floor.
No, our memories shan’t live on,
No, no, they will never rise,
Into the air like helium would,
No air balloons for me to view,
No future tears to cry.
(c) 2022 Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose. All rights reserved.
Photo by ImAArtist on Pixabay