The Rememberings

I took a sip from the glass.
I shook a thought about the past.

A bout how some things have changed.
A bout how it’s all the same.

A bout the faults that oft repeat.
Until I’ve had enough defeat.

And hold the hand of the beyond.
With that hand I’ll correspond.

I’ll write an ask, short and true.
And wait for word from the blue.

Without a want, without delay,
Will the answers find their way?

The word, the word. What is thee?
You are the part I get to see.

Where it goes, whence it came.
Could this be why it’s not the same?

Before a clear and gentle word,
A manic way can be deterred.

The word is here, the word has been,
And when it’s not, there’s often sin.

The word relates, the word persuades.
The word is all, the word pervades.

Could this word be the hand,
To which all else would be remand?

It’s such an odd and funny thing.
But it sounds true, in fact it sings.

It sings the song of a kind,
That forgets from time to time.