Somedays just feel like
the memory that escaped you
in the night, that moment before sleeping
that robs your motivation and clarity,
like looking through fog in the ices of your
youth for subtle answers, reasons why
you grow older and the meaning of
taste-
Why you are numb
to the constant flow and movement,
like the memory that changes every time
you access it, writing with the eraser tip so theres no
mistaking the blank sheet before you when you
write.
How sublime is the final testament
of a waking dream, the feeling of heat
at every extremity rising together
to burrow in your brain-
