Thursday, September 18, 2008

Remembering Mark

Eerlong the rains have left me

alone under the weight of purple pretense

(pretense and a glass of milk)

yet now in Viridian dreamrooms

I am wandering in under-down-out-through.

The Ashen remnants of dark Decembers

still taunt and tear these Gordian thoughts

Perhaps when I release this loathsome labour,

and finally sip sweet plum wine sleep,

there may be born a most intriguing question

the answer lying lazily somewhere

Written by Mark

About the Work: "This poem was written by my son Mark at the age 17. He was a talented artist/writer who would often pen anonymous poems and stories and leave them on the New York City subways for some stranger to find. Sadly he never got credit for his work or the opportunity to cultivate his talent. He passed away in 1996 at the age of 20."

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