She was convinced life was nothing but a mirror—
A mirror image of the ones she once loved.
She couldn't hear their voices through the cracks
Of the surface of her pain, the corners of her heart
Not everyone understood—
The images of her mind.
Yet there was never a doubt,
That things were meant to be different.
Celestial was the word brought forth
But it didn't convert to the ink well.
The inkwell was dry of lost memories
Sunk into the bottomless pit of black death.
Where had all the memories gone?
Had she lost them in the spaces of her trauma,
The maze of her conversations?
Was not the promise of restoration of life enough
To salvage the peak of insanity? To save what was lost?
Did nothing matter anymore?
As if the memories were all made up stories,
Made for entertainment rather than loving
What was lost and long dead?
Treacherous was the fool that stole them,
For he must be suffering such impenetrable losses,
Such sorrow, such joy. Such love, such hate.
Such unforgettable precious gems, such lucrative stones of burden.
Where had her memories gone?
ВИ ЧИТАЄТЕ
Eclectic Dreams
Поезіяthey told me I would never write again. they told me that whoever would read these words would steal them and run off like a thief in the night. thankfully, i chose to ignore my fears, sit down, and prove them wrong.
