As I look into suspended,
moments of time.
Memories hang, drifting.
Flying away on butterfly wings,
translucent words in some rhyme.
These ghostly figures haunt the essence
of so much of, that once was -
that once seemed so sublime.
Seldom are things what they seem.
Blinded by the journeys of ones life,
not knowing, such a terrible crime.
Not even seen in the essence of a dream.
B. J. “A ” 2
November 10th 2015
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield