These old sidewalks
Are still being poured,
Uncemented in my mind's
Evicted memory,
Still as I walk them
With regards to the past,
When everything is changed,
I loosened the locks on
Memoires that fall off the side
Of cliffs onto
Some ravine no one will recognise as once up so high.
Here on the street,
With knuckles clamped
As if another Street fight might occur,
Though the innards of
My seasoned being
Archive the rotation
Of memory's grip,
Such a daunting thing
To be grateful for all
The pain,
I imagine ducking from
Grazing bullets,
Eating laying down in the living
Room, privately
To my self,
The self takes refuge here.
A silent thing that creeps
Up
When times seem bad,
One cam remember the worst,
And that 12 year old
Would smile,
Laydown and have some
Dinner shaking his head
With a humble smile.
I think it's OK
To walk the worst
When things are bad,
It's being like an old soul
Waving at a new born,
Experience is funny
Like that.
