Raising the Dead

Sometimes there is a connection with someone. Call it psychic, if you will. Then it is gone and then sometimes, just sometimes, she thinks of you again. And, oh, how it hurts.

 

 

Your fingers brushed my soul again.

Here in the quiet roar of my room, I felt you.

Why?

What is there to gain by you thinking of me?

Nothing.

My over-dried soul cried out, rolling over once again to dust.

A drop of moisture on an arid plain of sadness.

There was no doubt, I felt you.

I could sense the remembrance of what we were.

How much love we lost.

How many tears I cried.

Did you?

I have never known.

You departed so fast.

Never fully have I grieved.

What was there to gain?

Your fingers brushed my soul again.

My dead heart ached anew.

..and then you were gone.

Reviews

[Deandra Dawn]

I can totally and complete relate to this. Was actually thinking about something along these lines last night. Words cannot describe how much I enjoyed this.

[Snuggles McClintock]

this piece has a lot of questions, and I would argue that a poem should let the reader come up with their own questions. I try not to pose questions, but to convey an image, an emotion. a good poem, like a good film does not impose a question and dances around them

[J Carly]

I agree with Emma on every point. And I'd like to add that although your words are filled with sadness, I have to say it made me smile. It made me smile to think, even for a moment, that it's not crazy to think that someone can feel you think of them. And that maybe sometimes, that moment when your hair stands up on the back of your neck, taking your breath away, and leaving a tingling feeling out of nowhere, maybe it's them thinking of you, too. It made me smile to think it, even though the world these days has little time for, and puts even less stock in 'psychic connections' by that, or any other name.

Sorry if I rambled. This just spoke to me on such a deep level. Well done!

[emmajoy]

This so sad, whether true or written by a wonderfully sensitive heart.. your words touch me. Seems sadness wrings the finest creation from a poet's thoughts.

'My over-dried soul cried out, rolling over once again to dust. / A drop of moisture on an arid plain of sadness. ' that is heart-breaking, truly it is.. And, by twice putting ' Your fingers brushed my soul again.;, at the start and the penultimate line you're stressing your feelings.

Beautiful but sad, sad, sad.