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Lost Thoughts

May 22, 2019

Where does a thought go

once it’s been forgotten?

If I found the hidden world

for lost thoughts,

would I befriend them? Would I

stay?

I would like to ask them

if they remember choosing the color of the walls,

or if they realize that the paint is fading with memory,

and if they care about either.

I want to ask:

When was the last time the daisies drank,

and how long has it been since they laughed?

I want to ask

if they feel abandoned,

hopeless,

purposeless.

Do they know they have been forgotten?

Do they believe they are lost forever?

If I met a lost thought,

would I bring it home,

make it my own,

turn it into something beautiful?

If I met a lost thought,

I wonder if I’d see myself.

If a lost thought met me,

would it bring me home,

make me its own,

turn me into something beautiful?

Perhaps I am a lost thought myself.

I wonder if I remember

picking the paint for the walls of my heart,

or if I’ve watered my roses today.

If I found this hidden world

with its chipped paint that no one chose

and the flowers they forget to grow,

I wonder if it would feel like home.

But perhaps

there is a difference between all these lost thoughts

and my own lost self—

if I am lost,

I will be found again.

Not abandoned,

hopeless,

purposeless.

This lostness is but temporary;

and now that I put pen to paper,

I know that I won’t find myself in lost places.

I will be found

where the sunflowers grow.

So, goodnight, hidden world.

I no longer search for you.

6 Comments

  1. Evelyn

    Cindy your words are so lovely. They will my heart with joy and my eyes with tears. <33

    Reply
    • Evelyn

      *fill

  2. Libby

    My heart… wow.
    This is… this is just so beautiful. I love how it just muses and wonders and wanders right down, and as it seems like the whole thing’s just about to fade away, you surprise us with the lovely conclusion that is so true! I love it so much, Cindy <3 Bravo!

    Reply
  3. Leon Fleming

    Very interesting. I liked the way you flowed in and out and held a broken rhythm. It’s almost like Whitman but with a touch of drifting. Very interesting and most definitely like the slow swirling of a stream in summer.

    Reply
    • Leon Fleming

      It’s almost like you were threading the words into a sheet that eventually made it all the better.

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