LIFE Poem: Can’t Remember My Fucking Dreams, Half Awake and Sinking Into Late Night Ideas, Should Keep a Note Book by My Bed, but Fuck Me I Guess Did Not Listen, by William Winter

It is sad, when small things die.
Silently known only to you, small delicate things, the light of the morning not yet seeing it as
it slowly fades away
fully ripe it falls out of mind like a fat berry into a hungry river
the death of an idea is such a surrender, not to defeat but in a slow fading of its finer parts and
words
until the fading impression is all that’s left
the silent and delicate nature of small things leaves our lazy eyes to rove on as curious lamps
to more happy matters
to have breathless curiosity is to miss the subtleties when they fade.

Author: poetryfest

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