How does this mystery burn upon my heart?
Sorrow does bring what is there but an endless hunger
Past all the problems in which to pull me under
I too see what others do not
For I am the memory you have forgot
How does this mystery burn upon my heart?
Left to one's own abandon
The sky is blue and birds do sing
What love is there but an after image
I have fallen once again
In a grievous state
But the heart does murmur
At least someone speaks to me
How does this mystery burn upon my heart?
Where does it begin lies in the end
To withstand that in which lies do offend
Yet here I am a remainder—
Putting pen to paper and pain to providence
I find in that strength—
How does this mystery burn upon my heart?
Where does the fire kindle as the fire start?
It is much like the time we choose to spare
Which the memories that come to part ways—
They are no longer there.
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When I wrote this poem, I thought of someone who goes through life being unnoticed, someone whose shadow gets more fame than the person themselves.
This fire, for this person—burns cold.
How we all crave to be loved and considered for who we are, and for this person it is only in writing down one's truth do they find gratification and strength above all else.
Beautiful.