Some vestiges of myself still remain…
Some are long gone in the mist of morrows
Some happy some sighing like my sorrows
Yet some still remain..

Pulling back the lacy curtain of my misty memories
I peek through frowning with wistful concentration
Trying to penetrate the foggy clouds of my hallucinations
Hanging on to some vestige of my reality..

A paradox it is, veritably, as I hang on to my sanity
What seems okay to me is actually a moot point with others
My reality is mine only as others look askance in negation
I perilously hang on to the remnants of me

Dried up fragments of flowers and pressed leaves are they
In the book of my life, their fragrance a happy memory
The association, an important part of me, lost in the mists
Of lost vestiges of me in the sands of time…

In these mazes of my mind I seek me in a dazed haze
They think I’ve lost it, yet I know that I am there somewhere
Curled up in self preservation against onslaught of other forces
Stitching tattered vestiges of me in a frenzy…

Am I a closed book gathering dust in peaks and troughs of my life
Trying to make it home under my own steam and no longer roam
The compass of my life gives mixed signals and clueless, I clasp
Tight to the remaining vestiges of me

I ask not for any pity or understanding or acknowledgements
My foibles and my idiosyncrasies aid me to retain me for me
Your memory now exists as those dried blooms in the book of my life
Now I exist in the vestiges of myself that belong to me only!!!



I’m trying to eliminate every vestige of my own personality, style, approach and get into somebody else’s skin. Sometimes I feel I’ve accomplished it. But when I don’t, I’m nobody at all, having left myself at home.
Judy Holliday American, Actress

Teaching is leaving a vestige of one self in the development of another. And surely the student is a bank where you can deposit your most precious treasures.
Eugene P. Bertin

If your descent is from heroic sires, show in your life a remnant of their fires.
Nicholas Boileau 1636-1711, French Literary Poet, Critic

There is no such thing as death. In nature nothing dies. From each sad remnant of decay, some forms of life arise so shall his life be taken away before he knoweth that he hath it.
Charles Mackay British, Poet


Tell us your thoughts