Limits- A poem

Can anyone really have a concept of time?

I don’t think time can be caught,

But slips, ever elusive, just out of reach.

We have put bounds on time,

As we do to anything we cannot comprehend.

Hemming it in.

Giving it a border.

An end, and a beginning.

Really, we have only seen,

A blade in the field of grass.

Limitless.

Unending.

But as we are,

With death,

And life.

We believe all things have a cut-off point.

The end of the line.

How long is a piece of string?

When does pi end?

What is Infinity?

Even as we give it a name,

We confine it.

Infinity.

8 letters long.

Time.

4 letters.

Held in by our inability to see the big picture.

The infinite picture.

That stretches limitless,

Past all human comprehension.

And into the unknown.

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The Yellow Dress.

This is a poem that I wrote about losing childhood. When I was about 9, I had (as I describe) a yellow dress. It had pink flowers on it and was, in all opinions aside from my own, very ugly. So for about a summer of my life I walked around looking rather like a battenberg. This poem started off being about another dress I owned, it was a huge, heavy, denim dress with massive pockets perfect for holding notebooks or a small teddy bear, but I changed it to be about my Yellow Dress. Anyway, I hope you like it!

The Yellow Dress.

By H. Evans

When I was younger,

I wore a dress.

A yellow dress.

I mock myself now.

But then,

The ugly material was as beautiful to me

As silk or satin is now.

I laugh.

But really,

I cry.

Missing my yellow dress.

And the girl in it.

Now I stand

For hours.

Sifting through my clothes.

Searching for a yellow dress.

That can’t be found.

Gone like the girl who wore it.

My memory hates the yellow dress.

But loves the girl who went with it.

Who grinned at the way the yellow stuff

Caught the sun.

And turned to gold.

My sister scorned the dress.

When it didn’t fit me anymore.

I tried to make her wear it.

But love,

Like anything,

Cannot be forced.

And even as the soft cloth slips through my fingers.

So the girl.

Runs.

Uncaught.

Glancing back over her shoulder,

At me.

Tied down with more beautiful dresses,

That make me feel small.

Flying in her yellow dress.

Laughing,

With the sheer exhilaration of life.

Painted against my memory,

A patch of yellow in my past.