If you could count the lost moments,
or hold them in your palm like seeds,
what would they sprout?
Mine slip through my fingers like condensation down a glass,
when they hit the table they will wither.
They were not made to last.
In the misty realm of the mind,
time ceases to matter.
There is only now,
and then -
Did and didn't.
Could and should.
If we beat ourselves less for the moments we lost,
and loved a little better what we kept,
would 3 am go unseen?
Would we worry less about the lost?
Or float,
or slip away, adrift in the spaces between?
About the Creator
S. A. Crawford
Writer, reader, life-long student - being brave and finally taking the plunge by publishing some articles and fiction pieces.
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A Few Moments More
You’ll give it one more minute, and then you’re headed back inside. It’s pretty chilly out, after all. Not that that’s a real issue - you’ve stood out here for longer, and in colder weather. The snow is nearly gone already; tiny, dirt-stained islands of the stuff form a shrinking archipelago dotting the sea of green that is your backyard. Striations of sunlight dance through the trees at the edge of the woods and paint the scene in a camouflage of brown, green, and gold.
By Gabriel Huizenga6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (3)
Super superb surreal poem!!! "Count the lost moments," what a beautiful thought!! Loved it!!!❤️❤️💕
“In the misty realm of the mind” is a whole mood and I love it!!
Great work! Fantastic job!