Hopes and Fears
By J. A. Weymouth
There was something
lost in that sigh.
A paramnesia of windows shutting and
light closing began
in the wake of ideas.
Too far lost those ideas tread
(and they don’t remember their true beginnings)
so far away taken, over long shores and hopes, were they.
Corrosive/archaic from water.
Water is the fearless patient.
What is this wistful feeling?
A searching/yearning/wanting of the things that have passed and have not come.
All that has taken the hand.
Beyond question/reasoning to believe that place is only home,
but that home has become corrosive!
The head, like the hand, has been taken somewhere
away – mingled by the strain of ideas and journey seeking –
living in that false reality.
And I believed in that fantasy.
Hope has taken my hand.