Generations past. Funny, How the pages dissolve in the damp time, And the ink washes off the writers breath: When the Dust of Ages Falls gently from our marching shoulders; To fall peacefully, As if without regrets, And Fills our treaded foot-tracks. These marks have barely time to exist. No records are left behind Beyond the dead silence of our brief memories. We walk blindly backwards, like beggars, Refusing to see what lies ahead. Our futures, behind us. Our pasts never straying our myopic sight. Not too many steps, then, Lie in the merging lines, We confuse remembrance with ignorance and still we stumble forward. Ian F. Brillembourg

I rather like the idea that we breathe onto the page the words we write. Shanna :-)

It's not that our vision is necessarily myopic. We are so bombarded with simultaneously occuring events that our minds can't possibly process everything immediately. It's only when we dream that the mind tries to take memories and integrate them with current events to test possible futures.

This is lovely and draws a vivid picture of the reality of those who live in the past. Very well done.

Very nicely done. You have several lovely metaphors and turns of phrase in your poem.

Thanks, guys, for liking my poem. I'm touched.

Another beautiful poem, very vivid and flowing. I liked it. :)