Poem: The Remains

Sometimes what solely is left are remains;

They last longer than carpet stains;

They are imprints on brains and travel by plane;

Into the recesses of thought where they are laid to waste.

 

I did not wake today thinking I would make remains;

The kind that come from lovely invitations;

Love-struck ruminations;

And unplanned dances with the ill and vain.

 

It was a mere outing to be with someone, romanced;

It was a mere chance, a scribble on a piece of paper,

That turned, somehow, into one thousand letters-

And burned in the fireplace flames.

 

There were pictures of course;

There were rough times, countless rhymes-

And riddles dancing in the air, without a care-

Until the night time came.

 

This is my true appraisal of love;

Whatever comes, by day or by night-

It is vanquished and oft comes undone-

And the remains are the last burning light.

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