All they saw were moments left by those who came before
Not knowing what they meant or who they were
Lain in their waterpainted graves like matryoshka dolls
Did they grieve like us, whetting their knives on totems?
To understand those things that cannot be understood
A child breathing her last, in dimmed swaddling
The ache of old age, enveloping once limber athlete
Love crumpled like fallen leaves, forgotten beneath
Did they yearn to be special? Noticed? Relevant?
Or glide invisibly through spun sheets of glass
Like early morning bakers rising their bread
Grown stale by afternoon, becoming food for birds
Such circles clasped in ever decreasing circles
Worn as sea pearls on mermaids smooth throats
Were they kind? Merciful? Fearful? Incomplete?
The sight of tilled soil and ruined land cleared of living green
Did it bury the same arrow in their quincing conscience?
Will time gently lay a wreath of forgetfulness?
Over their efforts as if never and not, their lives
Extinguished in a long roll of time and bundled up
To lie beside other oxidizing keepsakes and memories
Til the last person who remembered, was no more
So much existing, lost in favor of the clamoring now
All they saw were moments left by those who came before
TheFeatheredSleep 
The image supports your text nicely.
Thank you 💓
I really love this. As a student of history, I’ve spent years wondering how those who came before lived and endured, especially before much was recorded.
Beautiful I especially adore this line : Love crumpled like fallen leaves, forgotten beneath
Just lovely.
Reblogged this on My Screaming Twenties and commented:
Gorgeous piece ❤
Most thought provoking, especially as graveyards tend to be more neglected now
Excellent imagination !👍
We can learn so much from those before… those who have suffered… what a powerful poem you’ve penned here!
So very gorgeous! ❤
The imagery you create with your words is astounding
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
TheFeatheredSleep – Thinking of those who came before, and before them
I live on land stolen from another race.
On how many graves have I trod, unknowing?
Who lived and loved and danced these woods
Ten thousand years ago, or five hundred?
I don’t know, but walking here, I owe them a thought.
That is EXACTLY how I felt.