Skip to main content

The Ripple Effect

We're all stories in the end.

An afterthought to memories
sticky residue formed by the cerebellum
and ancient experiences.

I remember this life as simply as the next
adorned with what ifs,and sad maybe's,
undesirable truths and rude awakenings.
I could of had it all. That promised laugh,
That joyful tear,
That wrinkled smile.

An afterthought to memories
sticky residue formed by the cerebellum
and ancient experiences.

This road is not what it seems.

I received advice a long time ago;
choose the path less traveled
and diverge often from the foothills and valleys
peaking in sunset and light,
shadows and darkness,
earth and Heaven's above.

I was supposed to be happy.

Bring life to whatever was dead; the constant resurrection
of soul stirring eras, being told and retold
many seasons ago. For it was glory. Glory to
be the present unwrapped,
a child sprung forth of its mother's womb
entangled in a cord and cut loose
of any ties except destiny.
And who am I to choose it? To accept that
there were more tear stained shirts than I care to count,
hopeless thoughts in enclosed spaces and
unanswered prayers in sanctuaries of beloved spiritual realms.

My story will be forgotten.

An afterthought to memories
sticky residue formed by the cerebellum
and ancient experiences.

They will say, "Remember Beverly?"
and tell some woven tale of a renegade with a fierce tongue,
appetite for words that were never spoken,
words that were never shown.
I will be their secret. Their hushed rumor of
life, the odd comparison of what can be,
should be,
ought to be,
can't be,
shouldn't be.
Going out with a whisper
laying claim to recollected imaging
and validated with imprints of a photograph.
I was here.
I made a mark, didn't I?
I was a conquest of defeat, a challenge of others
and a spark of another.
Set goals, arrival at small victories
a small cheer of the crowd in remembrance
of a soul bearing a golden trophy.

An afterthought to memories
sticky residue formed by the cerebellum
and ancient experiences-

In the end, we're all stories.

-b.r.rivera

Type in Search Query Here

Popular posts from this blog

Exploring Poetry Styles: The Bop

Understanding Poetry: Rhyme Scheme

A Runaway Slave Writes A Handwritten Letter To His Wife of Freedom. I Hope She Got It.

Day 29: Are Skinny Women Evil? Mo'Nique Has A Book About That.