Poem: Lost Things

lost-things

Lost Things

It is not the innocence I miss
as much as the trust,
not thinking, not wondering,
not even considering the falseness of things,

hating the need to peer deeper, to look behind the curtain
for murderers and murkiness,
the deciphering of code.

It is hard enough for me to see,
but to see beyond is somehow not
in my repertoire.

I miss the confidence.
It was glorious to simply believe in my strength
as some unconditional force of nature,

not something that plays hide and seek
depending on the chemistry, weather
or slings and arrows of the day.

I miss the future, the dreams lost, shredded
by mirages not of my making, but shredded nonetheless
and fluttering in the wind like dandelion seeds,

never mind that life anew, different as it is
has conspired to become something better,
more true and mysteriously wonderful,

Old dreams
die hard.

Once I missed the stability.
Not so much today.
I have learned to dance without eggshells,
to dance on logs in water,
to dance on things that disappear and re-appear
like magic.

I am stronger for the unsureness, more nimble
than I wanted to be. My x-ray vision has improved.
I leap off of cliffs less often, more wisely,
more aware of what can be lost,
more aware
of what can be gained

and I have come to realize that,
truth be told,
I miss nothing
any more.

About this poem

This was supposed to be a journal entry. Somehow it turned into a poem.

Tom

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