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Poem: Mourning of Time 

If I could write forever,
shade and summer,
mist and mountain.
I would.

If I could rest lightly,
my brushes and colors,
my anchors and wings,
on feelings so near and so far,
I would.

If I could hide this moment,
this model sublime
until her lines and emotions,
easily, here they are, arrive.
Bright and unstolen
by the vandals,
darkness and ebbing tide.
It is they instead that were carried away last night,
past the Highlands, and the mortar,
and, out into the open sea.
With the prehistoric sturgeon,
indigo, disappearing deeps
and whitehorses on top,
chasing time after time away.
Not my candle, my lighthouse,
my moment, not me.

If I could paint permanence,
a sun soon returning,
to morning and blue,
I would.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Patrick Madden.

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