My mental arrangements
lay in disorganised confusion,
like an illusion of rose petals
cluttered over the floor.
Scattered pictures. Nothing more.
No concrete memories to pour,
not a statue of your face
nor of our racing hearts. Now I stand.
Alone in this shell,
a cocoon in deep space.
Floating along. Alone in this well
of deepening self-disgrace.
Alone in this sinking quicksand
like a slow-motion hourglass.
Just passing through.
I paint myself, and the image stares back.
A man without a face.
Flashing lights,
cinema screen distortion,
burning, bubbling
who I remember
and who I will be.
A calendar without dates.
A diary with no pages.
My thoughts clatter
through the uncovered
cavernous space, scrawling
smiles upon the walls of
this empty temple. Smiles
to the moments that time has erased.
But as I look back, I see only frowns.
Time begins to crack.
Lightning strikes etched into glass.
All around I see slivers, fragments
cut from this jaded timepiece galaxy.
Jigsaw pieces of who I have been.
Faded, so the edges are the only guide
to complete the image. Photographs
that should exist are now just plotholes
into a weathered past.
Holes I can’t help falling in,
as my stumbled steps keep crumbling.
Memories run away and leave me.
Rats fleeing a sinking ship
and I'm left afloat on a sea,
in the hazy fog that circles
menacingly.
Staring deeply into the void...
And my future sends me flowers,
and in those flowers I see galaxies,
all the grand colours of the cosmos
as space opens up,
and in the fields I see you and I,
planting love to grow in memories to come.
A universe of love always ready to bloom,
cuddled tight like the trees above.
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