The Memory Castle

Jackie Ann
Nov 2 · 2 min read
pixabay.com

Memories rise like a castle of blocks
being built by a child
who may at any time decide none of it’s worthwhile
and with a careless flick of the wrist
let the whole thing crumble.

But this castle is built on a landfill -
an artificial covering for a deep rooted history —
a history of which I’m not part, but happen to be born into.
By chance my feet are planted here, on ghost streets,
treading the flimsy surface that cracks but never reveals.

It only reflects. It shows my face in place
of something else. The past whispers
behind my back, but is silent when I turn around.
I think it’s mocking me, blaming me for it’s troubles.

I am a neglectful child. I never asked to be born.
I just happened to fall out of a womb like everyone else,
with no idea where I came from and why of all places
I should be here, now.

Why does this place call to me as if I know what it’s saying?
I wasn’t here when its timeline started -
when the foundation was laid, the walls raised,
the concrete poured, the bridges anchored.
I had nothing to do with it.

Why should my body support the weight of an echo —
a reflection of a reflection -
an endless cascade of mirrors going back and back
to some veiled sanctuary,
that lives and dies a thousand times
while I struggle to do it once?


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Jackie Ann

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Passionate writer who enjoys using the creative process as a means of self expression and self reflection.

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