There are days I sink myself in you
Like a sweet-scented, ever-so-soft carpet.
The colors are crisp and clean
In my mind’s eye,
Coming as into focus as if
I had been transferred in a thousand sparkling particles
From present day back to that pretty place
Where words were kind, sun was just right, and possibilities were endless.
I can hear them echo back in the
Remarkable acoustics in my head,
Like lines in a much beloved play.
But, then, there are days memory’s
A much more uninviting beast,
Prickly and prone to pitch my weary soul
Back to the heartrending depths
Of former pains.
Abuses that had dulled years ago are
Razor sharp once more,
Body purples inside with
Tears fall fresh on my cheeks,
Burn tracks as hot as today.
And I begin to despise my autistic recorder-
Cursed gift that is-
That programs my happenings
Scene for scene.
For though no one really wants to be
Reborn in a nightmare,
For me, there is often no escape
From the rehearsal of worser times-
And being able to visualize detail for detail
All too swiftly
Shifts from my delight to my undoing…
From complete joy to utter agony…
But, the more I gain in recognition of
My much-littered mental landscape,
The stronger my resolve becomes to
Pressure-weighted cobwebs of the past,
The more I can capitalize on the
Times that are worth the
And hone in on the gladness
Of the now.