Memories are a wistful kind
Few stories will bring them to mind
A simple crush one held close to heart
A nimble brush with death, froze to start
I can’t list them all, but yet they all tell stories to me. Every night again in dreams, reveries that bring it all to a grind-
ing halt, such trifles of chemists
we fault our minds, nothing persists
for vault, a locked one exists
in all of us. Memories not lost to time, but to ourselves. Not yet ebbed away by the flow of atoms through our metabolisms, yet the mind
eats our soul, our desires for
feats safeties, accomplishments, gore
greets our own. We scuttle from lore
that would damage our brittle psyches. What few terrible things we can bring ourselves to admit are deemed essential, but all other consigned
to rot away, a great mess betrothed
a blot gone again, tied order code
the snot breathes in, and flies its lode
It carries with it a weight, you see. One that you are still to fragile to remember. Perhaps one day such trifles will come back to you. Until then, we sit resigned
to the fact that You, I, We are not enough by ourselves. We are separate, but can assist. One’s trauma is another’s blessing, and as such we may find
All have purpose to remember
Stall to propose our December
For it will come, but perhaps we can push it off.
