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My mind is weighted toward sorrow
and I feel unbalanced when I walk.
There are old rooms there, certainly,
that I’ve now abandoned, with their coffee spills
and unmade beds, but there must be others
I don’t yet know. Clean and bright,
with the blankets folded at the foot of the bed,
windows open and the scent of lemon blossoms.
Or so I imagine. They are accessible
by breaking a seal that’s kept them pristine.
I can hear the rush of air when I open them.
There may be found the reframing
of all I’ve labored with this long life.
Not that, but this, they say. Which could mean,
my beloved, that I love you more
now that my fear is gone. And you, my friend
are no longer painted with my version of the world,
but as you are. Life fresh as childhood eyes,
now that the clouds are thickening toward the end.
Copyright 2020 Doug Anderson
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Ah, Doug Anderson, how I love this shift in tone. Maybe you had in mind what instantly leaped into mine, Housman’s “With rue my heart is laden.” His lifelong tornado of sorrow and distraction seized him before he finished university, one of which nonetheless took him on as a lifelong classics don. Very similar to my story, flunking something, then struggling lifelong to forge an adequate token of self-redemption. Nice poem. Very nice note to the soul of relief, Vox Populi!
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I know this poem, I am living this poem. Beautifully expressed visually, and verbally. peace my friend
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Beautiful poem Doug!
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