I found an old poem I wrote six or so years ago nestled and miraculously, preserved in between the pages of one of my favorite books. The paper is yellowed, and the pencil is smudged, but the poem remains quite legible, and is terribly constructed. But, it is something that at the time, I felt connected to and so bears if anything, history. I have fixed it up a bit, mostly because I cringe at some portions but here it rests, more or less as it was:
I will not cease to try
Fall 2004
The boy he sits where I once sat
with his books and an old cricket bat
He does not know how to play
The cliffs rise, jaggedly
ascending towards the sapphire
of your eyes
Trees sprout from each forgotten crack,
stacked
one on top of the other
dribble of green on a slate canvas
My feet become immersed in wet clay
I walk towards your eyes
upwards
the sun voices her last cry
burning your sapphire into gold
leaving a faint watermark
on the paper of your dreams
upwards
veiled, i see your eyes
upwards
with each step the mirage fades
i will not cease to try
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