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Click hereStains of wishes are squashed
on the glass of the past.
The hues are many, overlapped,
turned to a sickly brown,
still translucent in the sun,
though all are still distinctive.
See, one is slightly blue,
and look close at it to see
a picture slightly distorted
of youth and gaiety perfected.
In the greenish one,
see Ouija board nights,
when I loved the unseen to death.
The little tangerine speck
tells an epic in such detail
of how I wept seeds of dreams
from my overexhausted eyes.
I know you don't see this,
as these transparent stains
are only magically restored
when my eyes gaze upon them,
but trust me, they are there.
A nice read.
I only wonder about squashed "wishes".
The rest of the poem seems to be about memories, not wishes.
And are "stains" squashed, or just all that remains?
Would an opening like:
"Stains of memories squashed
are on the glass of the past."
Sound any better?