Forgotten
I’d made my account so poor
When on my mind things that lure
Befall on a snare insure
Lest my soul can ask no more.
In the trench I am by now
My head may have its bow
Upon this things along the rows
To which my eyes- the tears I’ll show.
For all is fleeting – yes indeed
And friendship bond conforms to it
And things forgotten can’t be retrieved
But if it can- these things I never writ.
Copyright © Ruth Wrights | Year Posted 2017
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