SCRAPS IN TIME

In the end,
All that will be left of me,
Of my words
Will be scraps in time
Scribbled words on napkins,
Or matchbooks,
Littering coffee stained tables,
In smoke filled rooms…

I like this; so atmospheric and evocative. I know what you mean about the tables, and I can almost see the smoke left hanging in the air...

But surely they will remember us; although it will be nothing which can be seen, surely we will be a part of others which they will carry with them...

I like these short, intensely evocative poems of yours, Mandy; they suggest more than they say, as someone once wrote of Milton: they are like snapshots.

Thanks for sharing them; I think you do them so well.

Love,

+Stevie

yes, i agree with steven.

Well, Thank you as always gentlemen.