by Richard Vince

Forgotten angels sit alone,
Awaiting remembrance which may
Come when radio dials are
Turned absently, by hands that
Need the interlocking of
Warm fingers and the hope of
A firm grip.

“She was never more than
A dream,” he chants like a mantra
That he hopes will bring
Deliverance from misdirected
Nostalgia. “She is nothing,”
He says as he thinks she was

Forgotten promises circle like
Flies around a light that is
Not switched on. His attempts
To swat them give way to a
Grudging acceptance and an
Uneasy coexistence; the best
Way to forget becomes
Keeping away from the room.

His eyes look down: scuffed
Shoes, dirty nails, cracked
Skin, empty pages, uneven
Pavements and softly rippled
Puddles are his world now.

Even when the world is wet,
His eyes are dry. There are
No tears for forgotten angels,
Only for forgotten words.
He remembers every one.


Posted on 07/26/2007
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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