A Year of Poems – Day 233

Forget, the word falls often as a curse
Lamenting all which passed from memory
Old friends, a chore, or sometimes something worse –
A game, a play, an anniversary –
Lives forgotten hunting for something less.
With age it gains another note – a balm
A healing salve to dull the pain of time
When rhymes are lost in the press of minutes
A calm unlooked for at life’s last limit
Before all the pain can be forgotten,
But the word still curses all the blossoms
Fallen from the tree which like seeds will grow
Products of death, decay, a sudden fall
But blooming with unlooked for life. Knowing
the forging pain. Petals both know and forget.

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