It's no easy thing for me
to look back upon
the reasons that I
turned my
back upon
a life
fuelled by heat
and the seasons
that
beat me down to
the floor
and
any more
than I
could
remember then
is lost in the recording of
way back when
the night was a penlight
that wrote
on the starlight

how tight these ancient
memories
hold into me,
how cold when I hold
on
the old, but I have the key

it's imagining then
when I go back
and when,
it's so hard for me
to turn away again,
like a screen on the screams
that revolve
in my dreams,
recording though it seems
that the tape has run
through the
echoes of what
was ever said
never done,
it's not easy for me
to look back upon.