Never Saved
vision stunted by past deeds
leading to my current place,
childhood face: disconnected,
now adrift on stagnant lake.
cynicism scrawls the map
leading to my resting place,
a symptom of a drying mind,
what once was fluid, now is blind.
each denial of childhood dream
fractures now my world it seems.
mothers tears dried in her grave,
childhood view: never saved.
poem by Christopher Withers
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Dawns Decay
each babe wakes to earths new dawn,
mistaking new for what is worn,
futures cast before they're born.
childhood cheer renews life's sheen,
repainting vistas last past seen,
brightens futures grey cast screen.
childhood cheer gives way to teen,
early brightness now unseen,
noon sun slides to evenings scene.
adults wallow in the past,
spying dusk - horizon sat,
futures span is failing fast.
the current moment caught at last,
the future spent, the past fades fast,
no escape from deaths grim grasp.
poem by Christopher Withers
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Hidden Unknown
childhood: unknown excitation -
the world primordial-new,
mysterious place where
dreams are dreams and reality
tastes
of the unexpected
and then
adulthood: stale
ingrained pathways bleach
the world into
a sterile representation
of the dreams childhood grew.
on occasion: a thought,
moment or event,
triggers a resurgence of
this hidden 'unknown' and then -
it is gone
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poem by Christopher Withers
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Winters Sun
Winters pall dims the vestiges of autumn gone,
lost the laughter and the sun, families fled
past the eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun.
Mundanity dulls the keenest edge, (re) casts
playact in imports stead, each actor caught in
winters pall, dims the vestiges of autumn gone.
In heady, early days, blushing glance was enough
to hold, then break, the rhythm of the dreary drum.
Past the eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun,
each generation caricatured, first by writers pen,
then realigned by victors gun; the awful chill of
winters pall dims the vestiges of autumn. Gone,
the comfort in a hug, entwined hands: now undone,
voices held on memories breadth, fade away into the
past. The eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun,
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poem by Christopher Withers
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