Memory.

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 

Emotional bruising,

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 

Sweep aside

Pressure-weighted cobwebs of the past,

The more I can capitalize on the

Times that are worth the 

Sentimental journey,

And hone in on the gladness

Of the now.

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