permeating my daydreams yet again,
are these old memories so strong;
places and people of yesteryear
like a wall of static photographs

as I force my eyes awake and onto the road ahead
fearful apraxia screams to do otherwise:
life is best lived within the jailed bars
of what once was

yet one could hardly call that life.
for as I constantly seek to remind myself
the word for not changing is death.