napowrimo 10 - Abstract

Misfortunes will become fine artwork
and time a slab to display,
all the sculptures in all dimensions
will only exist at the level of the mind, perhaps.
A piece of writing, a verse, a song,
letters and vows on the tip of the tongue.
All will wither, echoes will fade away,
voices will travel to another medium
by when they're no longer heard
just a whistle in the forest
just a breeze in the air.
Reborn into something new
the wounds won't hurt
and the memories will wane.
Sometimes they will return,
reminiscences in yellow filters
but no vision and no frames
or black and white on a lonely day
I'm not certain
I can't be sure
but it hurts at youth,
at youth it hurts the most
I've heard the wiser say.