Who will read yours?
life, i find, it very much, like a poem. created to read, created to be enjoyed, shared with the world, embellished. each stanza, a bridge of meaning, between you, and the reader. meaning flows, as you impart your message, open to interpretation, open to misunderstanding. to share my words, and think that other may enjoy, gives me pleasure, deep in my soul. to share my mind, and think that other may enjoy, gives me pleasure, deep in my soul. to share my body, and think that other may enjoy, gives me pleasure, deep in my soul. when it is all said and done, who will have to read yours? who will miss you, when the book is closed? © Emma Steel
I think about the missing of those I love past loss and grief; and I hope I showed them how I’d decorated the rooms they occupied in my heart before they left or were gone. That we are words and phrases and metaphors and stories—read books, read poems, simply read and enjoyed and loved… this tickles me to no end. I can know that even in gut wrenching loneliness, next to my own pile of well worn memories of love, I must be, hopefully, a creased-up old cover with earmarked pages, a favourite upon the shelves and bedside tables of a great many people. This poem of yours is delicately lovely in its longing. 🫶🏼🙏🏼💕
This is so beautifully penned.