These letter are old.
They’re from an era long passed.
Consumed by fire now,
But like smoke they linger in the atmosphere.
Time moves so fast.
The person I see writing those lines,
He has been dead for many years now.
Like a shadow he has faded into history,
A relic of days long gone.
No where to be found.
Still his memory has survived,
Through every storm and trial.
Like a ghost he looms over me,
And watches who I have become.
I guess it’s been awhile.
Could I have stopped this transformation?
Was this the right road to walk?
I could have fought this changing nature,
But would it have been best?
It’s only talk.
Now I sit and weep for that boy,
Who had only a desire to love.
That child who sat sleepless by candlelight,
And wrote sonnets wrapped in tears and blood.
Who longed for peace from above.
Those cuts have formed scars now,
All but forgotten and hidden.
But I can still feel them when the storms come,
It begs me ask a question.
Am I forgiven?
For the scars that I have caused.
For the errors of my ways.
For the man I have become.
For the soul I buried in fear.
For the nights that have been my days.
I think that child is long gone.
His love, hope, and innocence,
The future he once held in such high esteem,
Just a vapor like smoke in the moonlight.
Now there is only repentance.
There is no returning to simpler times,
No running back to that lonely child.
In a way, though he is dead, he is still here,
I can feel that spirit still.
That sorrow no longer mild.
If I could go back and find that weeping boy,
Perhaps I could tell him the best is still to come.
But I’m not sure I could lie,
When I have seen what’s ahead.
I would tell him to run.
Grab every letter you can,
From every day of your life.
Hold them close and don’t forget,
Who you were when you penned those words.
Let there be no more strife.
Someday soon I hope to write again,
And remember the man I am right now.
I want to come back to this night,
And give me hope to carry on.
I want to once again feel proud.
So, for now, I hope for that hope.
I long for that longing.
I wait for the day when this pain seems a trifle,
And I can read these letters with a mended heart.
I just want that a sense of belonging.
-Taylor Glenn Pritchard