April 19, 2009
Typical summers wash away your worries.
Everything's a party as long as we're here.
We often forget that the worst could still happen.
And our fantasy fun could disappear in a second.

And soon enough, catastrophe appears.
No one is ready.
No one expects it.
All the nights we spent in our glory are now spent in sorrow.

We've burned out like a candle.
The smoke decendes and soon is left with out a trace.
But the memories are still there.
They are never forgotten.
Too harsh to pass by.

Join the Discussion

This article has 1 comment. Post your own now!

e.l.w said...
Jun. 5, 2009 at 8:09 pm
What is the catastrophe? While mystery is used in lots of poetry, some meaning ought to be clear to the reader.
bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback