POETRY

Memory Whispers

Life’s roundabout haunting question.

Image created by the author with Bing Copilot Designer

In the misty rain droplets, one stands in a misty forest,
heart tightly gripped by self-doubt, an old grief chorus.
Lonely, amongst stark skinny icy winter memory trees,
small teardrops leaking from heaven in a torturing breeze.

I stand alone, consumed by these random scattered thoughts,
in mist hovering above the ground in a mesmerizing cyan hue.
The trees silently sway, mockingly. They whisper to me — naught.
A bird’s chirp asks, softly: Has depression yet consumed all of you?

The bird’s question echoes a refrain, hazy echoes in blue-lit mist.
A question I can’t answer — all of me, or only a tiny part of me?
Does it matter when I hear voices from nature when I can’t see
the answers to life’s problems and plots that exist in the mist?

Does it matter when life doesn’t seem to make sense anymore?
Does it matter that I want to cry, but don’t know why, or how to cry?
Why is my life haunted by specters of uncertainty and fear like before?
Why are all these questions consuming me when life turns desert-dry?