UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT IV
Home movies capture the moments
Moments and memories that trouble my mind
It will never go back - we will never be younger.
I stare at what was and wish I was blind.
My children will never again be babies
They grow ever older and less sweet – they become like me
Those who have died are resurrected – only to die again at the end of the scene.
And I mourn once more.
Chances have vanished - occasions that should have been savored
Guilt and sadness over opportunities lost creep over me like a ghostly, gray shadow.
The movies were made with good intentions.
“We will now capture the moment.” We naively said.
Not knowing our folly.
We anticipated future celebrations of remembrance.
Yet I reminisce sadly – watching what I don’t remember through moist eyes over a quivering chin.
Seeing them again does not make me happy.
My inattentiveness and failures crush my heart - hacking it with a homemade hammer.
When did life leave me? When did happiness cease? How did I forget?
I swear to myself that I will suck each remaining moment dry of its blessed bliss.
Then I realize a moment is now, and again I refuse to rise from the recliner
And I listen to it pass
The movie has ended.
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