R.L.M
This year will bring the seventh that has passed.
Since you have left,
Time has always gone by subtly fast.
Heartache remains. Pain we bare.
Since you have left,
We’ve remembered those moments almost too clear.
So many questions still remain.
Since you have left,
We will never be the same.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
|---|---|---|
| Title | Comments | Submitted |
| Longing for Yesterday | 0 | 08/21/2011 |
| Missing You | 0 | 08/21/2011 |
| R.L.M | 0 | 08/21/2011 |
| Lonely Hill | 0 | 08/21/2011 |
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