things that happened to me
that seemed so full of eternity
and set in green and granite
things i figured i'd never forget.
The city distracts me but
i go back to dry land
everywhere i find evidence of my memories:
people, places, streets, trees,
the laces they took from me at the hospital
i cannot find them-
they lie in a bin,
in a landfill, deep in the ground under the rot
but these memories-
i cannot find it-
the idea they happened to me
i am finding ground
and lying on it
but falling through to the core.
forgetting what it is like
to feel air on my face
to feel my chest when i cannot recall
the feel of anything
or anyone at
all.
the few days i do remember
are vignettes of a film,
stored away in archives and
exploding in a kiln
the other ones run from me in a tunnel
towards green orange and gold days
of leaves, and air, and trees and hay
to lock me out forever
to send themselves away
from me.
to forget my memories
it's like a sickle wedged into my heart,
handle out towards the hand of time that sunk it there
who did it happen to,
and when, and where and why
I don’t know
purple vermillion skies
in October, the turnpike pulsing under me
flying past on an over pass.
Now a year later I lie
in cold sepulcher of room,
wooden smell and dark purple night
I can finally see the stars
but they do nothing for me
except to remind me
they were there this whole time
and remember more than i could ever
dream of.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 12:33 AM UTC
things that happened to me
that seemed so full of eternity
and set in green and granite
things i figured i'd never forget.
The city distracts me but
i go back to dry land
everywhere i find evidence of my memories:
people, places, streets, trees,
the laces they took from me at the hospital
i cannot find them-
they lie in a bin,
in a landfill, deep in the ground under the rot
but these memories-
i cannot find it-
the idea they happened to me
i am finding ground
and lying on it
but falling through to the core.
forgetting what it is like
to feel air on my face
to feel my chest when i cannot recall
the feel of anything
or anyone at
all.
the few days i do remember
are vignettes of a film,
stored away in archives and
exploding in a kiln
the other ones run from me in a tunnel
towards green orange and gold days
of leaves, and air, and trees and hay
to lock me out forever
to send themselves away
from me.
to forget my memories
it's like a sickle wedged into my heart,
handle out towards the hand of time that sunk it there
who did it happen to,
and when, and where and why
I don’t know
purple vermillion skies
in October, the turnpike pulsing under me
flying past on an over pass.
Now a year later I lie
in cold sepulcher of room,
wooden smell and dark purple night
I can finally see the stars
but they do nothing for me
except to remind me
they were there this whole time
and remember more than i could ever
dream of.