Sometimes, the things I remember
Are not real memories
But shadows of some experience
that I lived in my dreams.
Constantly, as a flow of energy
Memories and recollections
Ooze through the past into the present.
I can never be sure of what I remember
– Except that I had known of it before:
Only that I have lived the moment
In some previous span of time
Some orphan moment- long deceased.
Maybe it’s a lure
To my active consciousness-
Maybe a signal from the deep reaches
Of my own unfathomable mind.
Or maybe they are artifacts
Of some half-forgotten stampede
Of so many surreal juggernauts
Across the blank celluloid plains
Of my psyche- dark as an abyss.
Yet nothing changes.
I sit here- dazed-
Unable to remember more than a few snatches
Of light, or shade
Shining through the leaves in bowers;
Across unknown skies, Or over waters deep;
Or through corneas reflecting truth
Or deceit; or a myriad
Of other human emotions
Alien to me.
So I wait-
I patiently wait.
For that someone
Who might someday
Find some way
To sew up those snatches of
And make my fabric whole again.