past perfect

All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling.
-Oscar Wilde

sittin by this computer and staring at the screen
the soft spoken words spoken not so long back
and images that come flashing by
not so near yet so clear
voice that resounds in dreams
face that lights up the night
a baby smiling by her side
the hair rubbing the shoulder
wrinkles in the eye a sight of delight
bubbles from the ring
colurful shining bright
the smile of hope
to swallow her grief
to see me by her side
brushing against the arms
the nails and the songs
loudly singing in chorus
with a fixed glance
on me or something she could see
a saviour in the moment of grief
the magic in the smile
to heal a thousand souls
and it was all me
swept by an emotion so unreal
so fleety and free
no boundaries it could see
a delight landscape out the window
a hand so light it could freeze
those things they call paradise
in the arms of a child
a lost world, a lost time.