Array ( [sid] => 183724 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Stages [time] => 2016-11-09 23:25:25 [hometext] => Crossing from inward to outward [bodytext] => When there is no one left to live for, we come face to face with ourselves.
There is no use knocking on a door that no longer opens.
The empty road is silent of direction, and the tinyness of our existence comes sorrowful to know.
This is the moment we shoulder reality reluctantly, with no one to witness us but our reflection in shadows, and the knarls and tangles and scars that evidence our humanity.
To belong again somewhere, we must reach for the hands of suspicious strangers, and we must offer something of value to realize a measure of their affection.
We are no longer the center of our own galaxy, but a flickering light bearing a sack of gifts unshared, hoping for the sound of someone who needs them.
We are ready to give instead of take, to love instead of be loved, and it is, for all our lament, the finest moment we will ever regret. [comments] => 6 [counter] => 599 [topic] => 21 [informant] => softerware [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Stages


Stages
Date: Wednesday, 9th November 2016 @ 11:25:25 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: softerware
When there is no one left to live for, we come face to face with ourselves.
There is no use knocking on a door that no longer opens.
The empty road is silent of direction, and the tinyness of our existence comes sorrowful to know.
This is the moment we shoulder reality reluctantly, with no one to witness us but our reflection in shadows, and the knarls and tangles and scars that evidence our humanity.
To belong again somewhere, we must reach for the hands of suspicious strangers, and we must offer something of value to realize a measure of their affection.
We are no longer the center of our own galaxy, but a flickering light bearing a sack of gifts unshared, hoping for the sound of someone who needs them.
We are ready to give instead of take, to love instead of be loved, and it is, for all our lament, the finest moment we will ever regret.

This poem is Copyright © softerware


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