My memories do not look like the sun;
Flames burn brighter than my looking back;
If snow be white, then my thoughts are none;
If I have life, I know not what I lack.
I have seen a world of my own, shut it tight;
Where no man might venture to stories told;
I have watched the ticking of time in delight;
Though never did I feel I might grow old.
I love to think things past, yet well I know
That I carry the baggage in my hand;
I grant I never thought the past would grow;
My memories, when they walk, make me stand:
And yet, by recall, I think my life as rare
As any given up and never shared.
About Me
- Clare Merison
- Clare: clarity or light. Or the attempt to bring clarity to the things that matter most to me! A budding writer trying to find a niche that really fits my eclectic tastes and interests; with so much to choose from and so many things to learn about I could read and write forever!
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