The Mists (Of You'Re Memories)

The fine mists
come rolling over.

And it is a fine
crisp evening
to mull things over.

You are here, again
All alone.

Lost in you're thoughts
as you roam
this desolate park.

It's wide-open spaces
Seem to engulf
you're very being.

As the cry of the Raven
echoes
Carried upon the breeze.

You're feeling

Cold.

Pulling you're coat up
closer to you're neck
You shiver.

And with hands in pockets
quiver with rage.

At the injustice
of it all.

Relationships?
Who needs them?

And, with an empty heart,
you gaze upon the lake.

You are feeling
NOTHING
As the trees begin
to take
a more menacing shape.

The mists come rolling in
from afar.

In a park that held such happy
memories
of things gone by.

And, with head bowed,
you once again,
make you're way.

Back,
through the mists of time
and cry...

by Wayne Leon Learmond

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