These DaysA Poem by Oliver FreeThis poem is something new that I tried.On these days I cannot sleep. My mind drifts from place to place, dream to dream, and back again. A hand extended to a young boy as sweet as honey, longing for nothing more than the warmth of a soft touch. A mother's hand, perhaps, is what the young boy desired to hold. Though wherever he would go, misfortune would shortly follow suit. The hand that the boy held was of no mother's, but instead, all of his sorrows, and his pain; manifested as one being. The young boy knew of his grave mistake, but regarded it little. For he was used to the pain, by now. The bony hand, attached to a certain foul creature, known as Death, grasped the poor young boy's shoulder. Death had claimed his youthful soul in return for one thing, and a simple thing at that. The foolish young boy had but one small request to Death, as the air in his lungs began to fade. "My mother, you see," the boy explained, "Never got to live her life to the fullest because of me." "So, please," a single tear dropped down the boy's slender cheek. "Just let her forget about me." Death chuckled, though it did not seem so, at the boy's strange request. "Being forgotten by those we loved is a fate much worse than death could ever be."
© 2016 Oliver FreeAuthor's Note
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Added on December 20, 2016 Last Updated on December 20, 2016 Tags: Poem, introspection, dream, thoughtful, death AuthorOliver FreeHorsham, PAAboutI'm a 20 year old amateur writer. Poetry is my passion, and though I am certainly not the best, my only goal is to improve. Any support would be much appreciated! Thank you for reading my work. It mea.. more..Writing
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