An Ode to Our 48 Hours
An Ode to Our 48 Hours sad stories
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benshin
benshin Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   a year ago
A poem I quickly wrote a few weeks ago, and now I want to finish it. Mind if I get some feedback?

An Ode to Our 48 Hours

Preface:

To _____________,

Wherever you may be, Shanghai, the West Coast, or the East Coast, I hope you achieve enough to be happy and have the time to look back at the times we spent.

May every stroke of a pen become a river that gently carries you to your destination.

Yours truly, Ben.

Let us take the dying amber,

The one that has wilted for half a year,

Let us rekindle the fire and extinguish the anger,

Dust what needs dusting and freshen the air.

You’ll flip back to the pages you memorized by heart,

And I’ll notice the creases that split it apart.

We’ll do this as the amber flickers,

Hoping the fire catches and the pages burn.

Whatever happens, happens

It’ll just be another page for us to turn.

The book will close as the smell of disinfectants replaces coffee,

It’ll be stuffed in the attic, maybe for you to later see.

Two days and six years, grey replaces red,

The pages might be alive, but it might as well be dead.

You’ll carry an umbrella just in case it rains,

But you’ll give it away and never see it again.

You’ll do this as the amber flickers,

Hoping the fire catches and the pages burn.

Whatever happens, happens

It’ll just be another page for us to turn.

With the smiles gone, it will all be wrinkled

The gloom will come, it will envelope you.

The fog will be too thick, but you’ll mistake a car light for the sun,

And embrace what light the place will give.

But only the couch will cushion the fall,

In case you try to climb the giant grey wall.

Will the amber flicker?

Will there be smoke?

Whatever happens, happens

It’ll just be another page for us to turn.

Now grey has replaced all your brown,

The gel of time swallows and slows you down.

You might not notice since you met the giant wall,

Once you remember the pages, you’ll feel the time stall,

The attic will be too far, too high for your reach,

But it won’t matter, our pages will be charred anyways.

Will the amber flicker?

Will there be smoke?

Whatever happens, happens

It’ll just be another page for us to turn.

All we see is grey and all we feel is the stab of cold air,

It’s raining, the fire won’t light,

If you kept that umbrella, it might have.

Should I have brought an umbrella of my own?

I thought I heard the Blue in Green,

I thought I saw the silver moon’s gleam,

Alas, the pages weren’t written that way,

And even if it did, it’s all but charred black, black and grey.

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