One day, soon someday,
The phantom pain of the amputee,
Will slip from memory’s grip.
Dreams with voices would no longer cut adrift,
No more will it bewail the loss.
But except every once in a long time,
When a stranger leans in as lovingly,
It would flood again,
Gasping for the next breath,
Taking to vague restlessness,
But still in relief,
To have saved the book of memory,
From that perishing library.
Copyright: Word Hunter