The Mourning

Of everyday passing, the sweet memories
of yesterday leaves them trapped in the present.
Old photographs developed, non-digital, reveals
a simple time they will never have back.
Massey-Ferguson tractors, tobacco barns, youth
and exuberance captured. Back when contacting
their loved ones were circled by pointer fingers.
Round nine, round one, round any other number to say
“I love you” and “I miss you” — an archaic time
when those words held sincerity. Oh, and how
we have sped up. Living seven lifetimes in a
day have wired us mechanic.
How those who existed before the hullabaloo of
worldwide madness is beyond me. Laying in their
hospital beds, watching civilization move without
them. I feel their pain of being forgotten and
Buried under these ruins; clashing tides and
constant updates such as: “I’m hopeless, I’m
excited, I’m traveling at the speed of light.”
How does it feel to be a stone in a never-ending stream?
Bones shaking, bottom lips quivering, the
mourning have become obsolete like classic
records, if not considered CDs or DVDs.
And what will happen when they’re no longer compatible?
Because once upon a time ago, beneath our
parking lots, McMansions, and industrialized
excuses was a field that prospered. They use to
skip and play hide-n-seek in their virtue.
And come tomorrow morning, sometime in the
decades of muttered words, an updated version
will come a long and do the same. Because one
day we will become a fragile relic as well.

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Published by

craneknewitt

I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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