I search the shambles
of my brain
For a memory of
how it used to be.
Before neurons
and synapses were
synthetically
altered. Before
emotions knew such
peaks and valleys
only depicted in
the finest of art.
Some days my
small, open palms
come up empty...
gripping and grasping
at straws feebly
******* at long since
evaporated air.
But then there are those days,
the ones that begin
with a shine and
end with a glow,
On those days
I recall the
blissfully innocent
images of a girl
untainted, untouched.
Of a stone
unturned. Those days,
if you see my
eyes in passing
connection,
make note of the
lingering glitter
of a girl
who gave her all
To get her all
in return.