One in the morning,
lying in bed,
staring at the ceiling,
eyes - mind - blank.
Alone.
Away.
Numb fingers
sort through pockets
to find:
crumpled cough drop wrappers,
shredded scraps of paper,
tiny bits of plasticine,
and one creased piece of paper.
It had been a story -
typed up -
(by someone famous) -
but scribbled -
between lines -
in margins -
until the original tale
was barely recognizable -
were notes
passed
from friend to friend.
Reading them,
smiling,
crying -
fingers shaking,
curling up
to silence
the screaming
of the black hole
the notes had opened.
Ink running,
the paper falling
under the bed,
to be lost
but not forgotten.
Author notes
The word I chose was Nostalgia. This poem is just remembering my awesome camp.
A contest entry
- Beyond Words by Errant Panther.
525 points, ended October 1, 2008, 21 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
Interesting piece and I like the way your memories at camp kind of felt like a poets version of chinese whispers - which in itself can spark memories from one's own youth.
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