Down those subconscious, mysterious corridors,
into one’s memories hoard , behind closed doors.
Into a surrealistic world of undecipherable dreams,
were one’s life is portrayed in reflections, it seems.
We move within this world of moments, to recall
moments, we pray, with pride, we did stand tall.
Moments, I have to say, where we also, did fall
Moments, I must say, we also lived behind a pall.
One looks from within the precincts of the cranium
to see, to find where one’s spirit, one’s soul did come.
The subconscious ?, a puppeteer ?, pulling the strings.
Creating a dance, to glide us across the floors of our past.
A voice that whispers in our ears, a voice that fervently sings
of all the adventures, all the experiences, with shadows doth cast
moments of uncertainty, moments filled with ghosts that haunt
one with memories that linger on and on, memories that taunt
one with passions lost, much like that of a fading, beautiful sun set.
At what cost doth one face impotence ? For how long must one fret ?,
over memories transported from our past, incorporated into our living days.
Memories of times which will never again see the light of day, only in dreams.
B. J. “A ” 2
October 21st, 2017
Copyright © William J. Jr. Atfield | Year Posted 2017
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