3 result(s) for Swimming In The Fog Of Years Poems.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
The Fading Shore
I swam out past the shallows of my youth,
where sunlight pooled on sand like spilled gold,
and every wave still whispered that the truth
was simple, bright, and endlessly retold.
Now turn and look: the shoreline blurs to gray,
its voices hushed beneath a drifting veil,
and all the years I swam have slipped away
like breath that cools on glass, like tide-kissed trail.
I tread the water, cold and deep and wide,
and listen for the laughter I once knew,
but mist has risen, soft and terrible-tied,
and every stroke takes me from what I grew.
Yet even here, in fog that hides the land,
I feel the pull of something still ahead,
a distant light that trembles on the sand,
reminding me the swim is not yet dead.
Tides of the Forgotten Shore
I wade where memory's water lies,
A silver mist that hides the years,
Each ripple hums a half-heard song
Of summers warm and childhood tears.
The fog rolls soft on every side,
I drift beneath its gentle weight,
And sink, with no desire to rise,
Into the drowsy, tender state.
No sharp regret, no bitter sting,
Just sweetness pooling, cool and deep,
Where faded faces smile and wave
From shores that time has learned to keep.
I let the current take me down
And breathe the past like evening air,
Drowning gently, unafraid,
In nostalgia's loving care.
Mist-Bound Voices
I wade through years the way a swimmer wades
through fog that hangs above a silent lake,
my arms outstretched to catch what memory fades,
the echoes of the voices I would make
surface again, if only they would wake.
I call into the white, and hear my own
soft ripple answer, then nothing more,
like stones sunk deep where stories have gone,
and every pale and drifting wisp I swore
was someone's laughter, mother's hum, or war-worn word.
Yet still I reach, my fingers cold and wet,
to brush against the shapes that drift and slip,
a whisper, half a name, a hand I'd met
before the haze swept in, and then the grip
of dawn, which loosens all the years at once.
So let the fog keep what it chose to keep;
I'll swim until the shore begins to show,
and carry home the voices I could reach,
and hum them softly to the dark below,
so lost things know that someone still will speak.
Can't find the poems you're looking for?
