Willows whisper secrets in my ear;
secrets that I cannot hear.
I wish and wonder why
the wisdom I am given is so profound.
Deep, intense… vision and insight
without a useful purpose.
Feels much like a thorn I cannot find…
constantly digging into my side.
I do not understand the what or the when;
Amnesia has stolen most of my development.
But memories are more than mere facts;
The procedures and the logic and the sense remain.
A sense of which I cannot describe…
It tastes a bit like dry, red wine.
Bites my tongue, rendering all vocalization
incoherent; all memories distorted.
I search, I scan, I compare, I analyze…
And, ultimately, I suspend.
Permanence I will fight to the end.
Purpose is to be made… and not to be found.
Perhaps this coherence is not profound.
Perhaps it is of common sense.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Willows whisper secrets in my ear;
secrets that I cannot hear.
I wish and wonder why
the wisdom I am given is so profound.
Deep, intense… vision and insight
without a useful purpose.
Feels much like a thorn I cannot find…
constantly digging into my side.
I do not understand the what or the when;
Amnesia has stolen most of my development.
But memories are more than mere facts;
The procedures and the logic and the sense remain.
A sense of which I cannot describe…
It tastes a bit like dry, red wine.
Bites my tongue, rendering all vocalization
incoherent; all memories distorted.
I search, I scan, I compare, I analyze…
And, ultimately, I suspend.
Permanence I will fight to the end.
Purpose is to be made… and not to be found.
Perhaps this coherence is not profound.
Perhaps it is of common sense.
