The Narrative

All things reach an end
And at this end all stories
Find their beginning.

This was the end of a season
Before the season’s end.

Summer began to fade like
Mist upon the mountain.
Anticipated rain hovered
But never fell, and Autumn’s
Air found its way into August.

Wayward adventures had come
To a close and families
Returned home with nothing
But stories and souvenirs
To remember by.

Porches clung to houses
– In the country and in the town –
They reached out to the
Busy streets and open fields
To draw to themselves
Any words or sounds that
Might be discovered within them.

Slowly, their neglected planks
Began to fill with the
Silhouettes of brave
Explorers, weary from
Their travels. They appeared
In motion, but never went
Anywhere. They swayed
Against the darkening
Sky but never moved
From where they started.

There they sat unpacking
The contents of their
Thoughts, afraid that
A story left unshared
Would lose all of its value.

Word for word, they
Searched their minds
And sifted the gold
From the meaningless.
Darkness fell, but their
Conversation grew like
A forest, around them,
And sheltered them
From the night.

Details fit together
Like negatives on a
Reel and their stories
Projected before them.

For hours they swayed
Motionless, but ever
Moving. The speckled
Stars graced the night,
As far beneath the void
The narrative changed.

© Jeremiah Dowling 2013

*This poem is part of a new chapter in my ‘Timeline’ series. I will be writing a poem for every month this year. This is the poem for ‘August’.* 


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About Jeremiah Dowling

I write poetry and take crazy pictures in an Orange Chair all over the United States while reading amazing books.

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  1. Cursed The Cold Bloody Ground « EssayBoard - December 10, 2013

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