misfires synaptic connections,
and I meander around spectre conversations
in autistim-like nightmares,
wondering if I can learn your language.
Memories are like ice,
reducing every day until only a puddle remains,
a mote of déjà vu, but no substance,
just damp resonance of a decaying thought.
I fight amnesia
without knowing the battle plans,
straining to hold that piece of land;
that piece of me.
Night’s siren calls,
lulling me to beguiling sleep,
where dreams are only darkness
and tomorrow erases today.