I have memories
That could be mine,
Selfies of other times.
Gray matter shots
That morph and shift,
Blur and smear
Yet shine.

My phantom snaps
Have smoke and mirrors,
Spectres with borders.
The smell of bacon,
A rising sun,
A carpet hill
To lay upon;
A door that swings
To past future,
A window to see through.

My astral albumn
Haunts my nights,
No light can dim my view.
I think my thoughts
Are photoshopped.
These memories of you.

Amidst  a lush farm of green as far as the eye can see
Is a barren plot of soil that is as dead as dead can be

No plant will take seed there
No fertile soil to produce or replicate
Dry patch of earth, so unwanted
Such an eye soar to the surrounding farms

Void of all nutrients
Void of life giving springs
Dust and brown decay fill the air
No harvest will exist there
How sad that the reason for its existence does not apply
How sad no farmer will take the time to tend her, care for her
Time to turn over the soil until life is reborn far beneath the surface.

The serpentine
Hissed wit
Whip keen,
Quick as mean,
Flicked tongue
At open sores.
He fancied himself clever;
Surveyed with
Cold red eyes,
Called no one
His better:
This Master of deception.
Others never
Felt the lash,
The cat-tailed snap
Of lips that cracked
A child's
Self-perception.

Is it ambiguity that frustrates you;
instead it was my gift to you

But why question a bird in its cage
or a caterpillar in its cocoon?

That is not the life that matters,
only the life to become; creation
is not destiny and destiny is not
the past for as the bird is released
so too are words into your mind
to fly where they may

Do not hold them fast; let them
take you where the vastness of
your imagination and dreams
may go because you will not see
the cage; it will remain empty
without memory or purpose

The sky is who you are; there is
nothing left of the past or what
someone may have felt or thought
at the time; the words have become
your own, changing, mutable, free