Misplaced In Translation
Sunrise begins to lift a faint
blush of red behind the city skyline.
The day crawls out from under
it's covers and starts to reclaim
the dark, evaporating dreams,
piecing together memories,
anchoring the self in time.
Yet something is lost,
a word or a sentence misplaced
in translation, the omission
of a line of code in a cipher
used to unlock meaning.
That vast mechanism slowly grinds
through the gears and starts
to move, paving over lesions
with noise.
You try and hang on
but each day takes you further
away from what was left behind,
now no more than a dull, persistent
longing pitted nameless
in your waking hours
or haunting the shadows
of your troubled sleep.
You realize that if it weren't
for these thin connections
stretched like paper streamers
across time, you could easily be
someone else.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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