My Becoming

My Becoming

I sit in my silent muse
Wondering just what it would take
To let go of memories of me and you
Of what we were, and used to do
I torture through the redolence shelves
Like pushing against a firm mountain
Swimming in an ocean without a shore
Or getting caught in an unending storm
If roses grow from memories,
I have a vibrant orchid
Of white and red, a bed of you and me
The joy that you bring
The talk of youth and being
I then, pray, that time on my memory puts a blemish
As you have on the good I still cherish
That as I lay my head upon a battered pillow
Find myself lost in a new sun-bathed meadow
No more thoughts of you and me
Just me, myself and my being
My comings, my goings and my becoming .

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