I felt the child die inside of me.
The one who poured himself
a bowl of maple syrup – just syrup.
When dots of white light dashed off the amber
he saw a galaxy of gooey galleries
shifting as the bowl tilted.
Bold eyes tied to the fallacy that
his stomach was just as big.
Mother caught me pouring it down the drain.
A twenty-bill wasted. Lost.
Lost to the sight he saw,
to his memories, alone.
Consider it admittance.
No shame in his heart.
Things are meant to be forgotten.
The sight of early dusk in winter, cold and blue.
The shadows of tree husks cast by moonlight,
stretched and wanning.
The part time wind in the heat of traffic,
windows lowered to the music of horns under the sun’s stomach.
Tears in corner of eyes,
does it tear us apart to see, or,
are we still young?
Lethe drowns everything.
Dead memories float to the collective unconscious,
they shed the shell their soul would slowly leave,
they were meant to be recalled,
never lost, only forgotten.
What strength should be spent
holding on so tight, trying to
remember, trying to preserve.
For forgetting is
the mother of wandering.