Gallery of Memories
They say the eyes are supposed to be the windows to the soul.
That thought often makes me shutter
because they can become blinded by small, flip folding
white lies created by a stranger and it allows yourself
to be opened by the pull of a string.
That wasn't good enough for me
so I took the drifting thoughts of my pain body and built a door
cast by a chain made of irony and a horrible metaphor.
It was only crazed, maniacal laughter that shattered
the peep hole I used to peer through a battered pith,
often confused with the heart,
because nowhere does it say in the myth
it is also enclosed in the soul of your window.
It is so much easier to agree it is meant to wither when cold.
Through the years my heart has been blackened,
overly seasoned on a griddle between the equinox
and the solstice, marked only by the condition
that I sealed my door without permission.
Now, it ages like a gut rot fairytale, bolted and locked in a keep safe box.
Three inches tall and four inches wide,
an unknown name on top with red velvet inside.
I always thought loving should be a piece of cake.
My center, stowed away and imprisoned under a word
unable to release or enter the gap
between perception and reality.
I am left trapped behind a gallery of memories.
Still, I collect them and distribute them irrelevantly
on a piece of paper entitled 'Today' and at the end of every Today,
I consider it a rough draft, crumple it up, and toss it away
because I will make tomorrow's Today a more pleasant essay.
Solitude has become an illusory sense of identity
guarding the door like a hungry fiend, craving and feeding
with a bleeding tongue of tension and staggering beliefs.
Fighting off whims and attacking precious moments
when primordial error could be wiped clean.
I can feel the vibration of waves on what they say,
but the depth of basic sounds do not reduce it to embody my deepest truth.
I rely on energy that entangles itself accidentally in the shield of my adversity.
A backwards time travel thought process, self wilding
on a reverse assembly line in the natural evolution of relations.
But, resistance somehow makes the world feel more real.
In actuality, what is being kept safe in my box, is a yearning
for the name on top to come along, place a bullet in the monster's head,
catch the door before I slam it shut, actually try to open the blinds and help me
replace my gallery with something a little more beautiful.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
