Forgotten, a poem

Forgotten

Did I never ask to be born
or have I only forgotten things
I once dreamed in my lost darkness?
Existence yearns to exist, to be,
groping after a hidden god
where scraps of memory lie scattered
among the dying silent stars
I thought I glimpsed. They change each time
I try to gather them together,
as with each memory, do you,
shifting this way, that way, in
peripheral, inevitable,
visions. Do you remain as you were?
Do you remember what we asked,
you and I? We understand
too much and care about too little.
knowing dreams of birth and being,
of forgetting and of sleep.

Stephen Brooke ©2026

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