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Little Moments
Sometimes, I wander towards my death.
Fleeting moments passing before my eyes,
Forgetting the trembling bedside cries,
Determined to draw another breath.
I’ll wonder, how time flies.
Little moments.
I’ll think back, to my childhood:
To chalk on asphalt, shoddy swings,
Oh, to feel flight—to have wings!
If only then I understood
The puppeteer, cutting strings.
Little moments.
The times of pride, of feeling great,
Frozen in history, for a while.
We’d speak about it with a smile
Until it had run its course, when it was late,
Then put away into a file.
Little moments.
They’d bring it up at the funeral, perhaps.
Remembering time in anecdotes,
To vaunt about when all of us could gloat
In small victories, in bits and scraps.
Wishing I’d see the speeches that they wrote.
Little moments.
Still, I can’t help but wonder.
Was it worth it all?
My little world fading on the hospice bed, by the rainfall,
Memories vanquished, torn asunder.
Desperately trying to hold on, to stall,
To remember. Little moments.
Yet thrust upon this earth, I confess:
What little choice do I possess?
Fleeting moments passing before my eyes,
Forgetting the trembling bedside cries,
Determined to draw another breath.
I’ll wonder, how time flies.
Little moments.
I’ll think back, to my childhood:
To chalk on asphalt, shoddy swings,
Oh, to feel flight—to have wings!
If only then I understood
The puppeteer, cutting strings.
Little moments.
The times of pride, of feeling great,
Frozen in history, for a while.
We’d speak about it with a smile
Until it had run its course, when it was late,
Then put away into a file.
Little moments.
They’d bring it up at the funeral, perhaps.
Remembering time in anecdotes,
To vaunt about when all of us could gloat
In small victories, in bits and scraps.
Wishing I’d see the speeches that they wrote.
Little moments.
Still, I can’t help but wonder.
Was it worth it all?
My little world fading on the hospice bed, by the rainfall,
Memories vanquished, torn asunder.
Desperately trying to hold on, to stall,
To remember. Little moments.
Yet thrust upon this earth, I confess:
What little choice do I possess?
I like the general message/topic here, and the sonnet-esque arrangement as well. Overall, I'm definitely picking up on the mood you intended to evoke, so that's a win in my book.
But I think I'm having a little bit of trouble with the meter here. At least, I assume that there is supposed to be a meter, because a rhyme scheme (which I clearly see) is really hard to support on its own without a consistent beat. There's a moment or two where I feel like I'm getting it, but truthfully, for the most part, I felt like I was stumbling. Rhymes alone don't quite give the reader enough information to know what to expect with each line, IMO.
So yeah, while my reading experience was a bit clunky, I did definitely like the little repetitions and parallelisms. Personally, I would prefer to lean more on metaphor/simile rather than trying to evoke specific images/memories, just because people emotionally react to these kinds of concrete concepts differently on an emotional level. But YMMV, so I'll be interested to see how other readers felt.
Thanks for submitting!
But I think I'm having a little bit of trouble with the meter here. At least, I assume that there is supposed to be a meter, because a rhyme scheme (which I clearly see) is really hard to support on its own without a consistent beat. There's a moment or two where I feel like I'm getting it, but truthfully, for the most part, I felt like I was stumbling. Rhymes alone don't quite give the reader enough information to know what to expect with each line, IMO.
So yeah, while my reading experience was a bit clunky, I did definitely like the little repetitions and parallelisms. Personally, I would prefer to lean more on metaphor/simile rather than trying to evoke specific images/memories, just because people emotionally react to these kinds of concrete concepts differently on an emotional level. But YMMV, so I'll be interested to see how other readers felt.
Thanks for submitting!
There's a definite rhyme scheme, but no meter. At least the rhymes do create a structure that makes it more inescapably poetry, though the plural "anecdotes" makes for a weak rhyme. Even without a meter, the corresponding lines are relatively close in syllable count, so they do loosely form a structure.
I'm undecided whether this is about someone losing their memory, or someone just hoping they've left behind a legacy of some value. Either one can be a painful realization to come to at the end of life. Maybe it's both?
I think it would have carried more power if it had used some specific examples. It deals entirely in generalities, and ones that pretty much anyone would have worried about at some point in their lives, so I think it's on the vague side to have that real impact. What are some of these speeches that the narrator imagines people making? What are some traces of the memories that are slipping away? That's what makes it personal. I guess it's different whether you want me to identify with the narrator or ask these questions of myself, but in the latter case, it's not really inviting me to.
I'm undecided whether this is about someone losing their memory, or someone just hoping they've left behind a legacy of some value. Either one can be a painful realization to come to at the end of life. Maybe it's both?
I think it would have carried more power if it had used some specific examples. It deals entirely in generalities, and ones that pretty much anyone would have worried about at some point in their lives, so I think it's on the vague side to have that real impact. What are some of these speeches that the narrator imagines people making? What are some traces of the memories that are slipping away? That's what makes it personal. I guess it's different whether you want me to identify with the narrator or ask these questions of myself, but in the latter case, it's not really inviting me to.
We here have rhyme scheme like the waves
Receding feet, and lengths decrease
Or grow as thoughts receive surcease
While we pass time and fumble to our graves
Still hoping that our words might yet release
Greater moments.
Receding feet, and lengths decrease
Or grow as thoughts receive surcease
While we pass time and fumble to our graves
Still hoping that our words might yet release
Greater moments.