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POEM 33 - The Aftermath
He sits on the bench,
Looks up to the sky,
He wants to know the answer,
He wants to know why,
Why he had to part from her,
Why she had to leave,
All of his memories,
He's starting to disbelieve,
He starts to talk to himself,
Hoping she is there,
Wishing, upon everything else,
That she still does care,
He places his hand in the middle,
Of the bench he loves,
Hoping that she is there,
Doing the same as her love,
He stares into space,
And starts to talk again,
This is a routine he'll do every year,
Until he's dead, and then,
He'll see her again,
In the Land of the Dead,
But until then,
He'll have to rest his head.
A poem I wrote, dedicated to "His Dark Materials" by Phillip Pullman, a fantastic trilogy of books consisting of "Northern Lights" ("The Golden Compass" in America), "The Subtle Knife" and "The Amber Spyglass". I suggest you read them, as they intrigued me to a full extent.
 DaleLuck1313 · Sun Jan 21, 2007 @ 10:52am · 0 Comments |
