It is a heavy tome I carry
filled with people I have known
in this space where they exist,
their stories bound into my own.
Perhaps that’s why in dreams I tarry
inside this place where we connect;
so many now no longer here
are carried in this book I bear.
The days weigh heavy on these shoulders
I sometimes feel that I can’t breathe;
the years spin by as I grow older,
and life keeps sifting though this sieve.
What hands once held slips though these fingers
I reach for things I cannot grasp,
and so it is I‘ve come to know
that nothing ever stays or lasts.
There won't be any double-takes
the years we live can’t be reprised,
perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to linger
in this space behind closed eyes.
When we’re gone, what will remain?
Where is it that our stories go?
Will we appear in someone’s dreams
...existing in the afterglow
of this life we used to know
© Ginny Brannan 2023
