Forgotten Memories | Teen Ink

Forgotten Memories

May 17, 2014
By Grace_Sowyrda PLATINUM, Medfield, Massachusetts
Grace_Sowyrda PLATINUM, Medfield, Massachusetts
35 articles 6 photos 9 comments

I step, slender feet over broken stone.
Hot sand steaming into spirits
no longer alive,
Yet not ready to escape their cage of despair.
Pieces of dried ash,
Remnants of castles, now worthless clumps of fairy dust long lost of their charms.
Broken pieces of beer bottles, some too small to see,
Others weathered into pieces of sea glass.
I can see myself in its lens, and become a piece of its forgotten crime.
My hair, loops of dark thread,
free yet longing to fly away.
To dance with its fiery roots who have long forgotten how to play.
My eyes like tear drops of the moon’s light, deep with mystery
I can only see my looks though,
not myself.
If only feelings and thoughts were tangible things.
If only I could hold them, lightly in my hand like white feathers of doves.
I would stick them upon my skin, piece by piece, until they would become white wings.
Wings so that I could fly away, leaving my fears behind.
I feel naked standing here,
pale skin vulnerable to sun’s rays
My hands are empty, lacking of sharp claws to catch my prey.
If I were the sand, a piece of memory still sparkling in dead ruins,
Then I could not survive my fate.
The monster comes, often.
The big cobra of the sea, opening its huge jaws,
Licking pieces of burnt sand.
Its long blue scales slither back and forth about the waves.
They create a huge blanket of blue, darkened by chemicals, by waste, by hate.
Hate that smokes upon the lips of the night air.
The ocean is where life begins and where it ends.
Someday we will all be that sand on the shore, our bodies
old and broken. There is sadness here,
Pain that only the ocean can know and remember.
Yet here lie our hopes.
Here lie our wishes, our thoughts, and our wonders.
All the flames we've blown on, the fingers we've crossed and the golden sprouts we've grown.
They all lie here, waiting to be woken up.
Waiting for me to see them through their transparent lenses.
For dreams are only tangible, are only real if I believe in them.
So why can’t I fly?
Fly like a bird.
Fly into night, into stars, and into sky.
Above.



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