Might Have Been

I am lost
and in loss, am losing
There beyond my reach
the sunlit shore
metamorphosis
Cold as Odysseus
no Circe here
no Panacaea
just these worn words
weary heart
eyes gone dry
How then can I heal?
Spring so far gone and
summer neatly wasted
my outstretched hand brushes
wheat stubble, uncarded wool rovings
endings and beginnings
but nothing in between.
Come see this hollow
this chalk-lined crater
peppered with laurel ash
and wilted evening primrose
This is what remains.
On rain-pattered days
there are no shadows
Only memories of where
they might have been.

cenobyte
cenobyte is a writer, editor, blogger, and super genius from Saskatchewan, Canada.

i make squee noises when you tell me stuff.

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