The Last Remembrance
I often let it slip through
the roughened irony of my palms,
and then some nights,
I clutch it tight
playing make believe
that, some tinny remnant
of the flimsy atlas we built
on the morass of hope,
may find its way home
into the cemetery of my heart
where your grave
stands open: the luminous
beacon to my redemption.
poem by Frank Lisa IndiRa Francesca Roger Platt Cornish Ma
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
