I would never think to write a poem to the reliquiae of my childhood dreams . Perhaps this is because the strongest of them was my desire to remain viably amendable . Unfortunately this makes it very easy to forget those innocent mishaps we ponder in our youth . It's pretty difficult to deny we are the creator here . As you so quaintly put it "You came to me on wings of fantasy
to have your fruits greyed, your nose Bloodied by doubt." Perhaps we would do best to remember the somewhat tabula rasa state these fantasies grew out of of , but I'm agreeing it "You persist , crying to be noticed Too bad. I am grown up now." Perhaps this attitude is in need of amendment as the last line seems to suggest . As topics go I thought you covered it pretty well . I'll be back for more later .
as if you no longer have the power to be so again. as if you get to a certain age and the ability to dream is gone. while i know thats not what you are saying thats what it feels like to me.
juggling life made me forget your face...
to me this is like an ode to a dead lover. i have written many a piece with such an undertone about a boy i loved who ended his life and the way life itself slowly corroded everything i had left to remember him by... i couldnt remember his voice... i couldnt remember his scent... i couldnt remember much of anything and it hurt... some nights it seemed worse than a stint in hell.
im sorry it didnt work out.
im sorry your dreams didnt turn out the way youd hoped they would..
harry chapin sings a song along such lines... i adore him though you prolly know nothing about him lol.
im gonna sign out before this becomes a ramble.
i like your requiem.
This seems to sway toward an old acquaintance, but I think it's more muse-oriented... a look at the lighthearted childish whimsy of the past and go, You don't fit me anymore.
How depressing it is, to have that switch/change/evolution come about, when our pain grows up and the light-heartedness comes like Peter Pan, wanting to play, but the soul is to heavy to fly off with it... that is what this reminds me of.
"...how you used to write..." is like being asked to stare at a dead child. Yes, that was then... but things change when chunks of you go missing.
Beautifully done, Theo is right... insanely pretty with a left-hook punch.
PS: Ahhh, I really need to start reading descriptions first... it really is perfectly done.