Enslaved

I hold my pen and think of what to write. Bound with time, enslaved by the past. A many mirthless pauses and a single melancholic thought  would never arrive at a story of reality sought. I wonder if my imagination works well for people whose brains can foretell the imagery of words and mystery of punctuations; Between the lines the words seem not an equation. But, beyond the obvious,         I search for more             to fill in the gaps                   my memory encore. Telling and retelling of the past        I beseech a tedious fast. Amazed how our memories enslave us         or free one's soul; Free them! On the paper they find                                                a respite  And so, I struggle to write the past, Hoping I will find a rest at last!