In The Cradle of My Memories
It’s sad to think that those who know me
Don’t know me at all…
Thinking they have me pigeon holed
Inside their prefabbed walls.
They don’t know, for example, what lies
Inside my brain;
I might have told from time to time
And tarnished my good name.
Without them even knowing that
Those things I did and said
Both noble and shameful
Secrets beneath my bed.
From helping strangers along the road
I’ve traveled long and winding;
Who knows the winds that blow
And leave us cold and blinding?
And those who love me most of all
Are clueless as the clouds
That I can even think at all
Or write a poem, somehow.
It’s not that they don’t love me
It’s not that they don’t care;
But rather that I’ve kept from them
These mysteries hidden there.
In the cradle of my memories
And womb of all my dreams;
One never knows what magic shows
Until the curtain sets us free.
Drawn away until displayed
The man behind the drapes
Is waiting for his chance to bow
Before too late.
Copyright © Terrell Martin