History and Memory
The disintegrate of all my dreams grew fangs
And bit as hard as frost on stained glass panes,
Lynched upon a willow tree where hangs
The carcase of conjecture in decomposed remains.
I cannot slay it's lingering from my mind,
It creeps a stealthy creep then pops up grinning,
And wears your face manifested sweet and kind,
I sink in this attrition, drown in depths of never winning.
The pain gores like a rabid dog and tears
Strip by cruel strip from my shaken resolve,
And whines the roughshod fact that no one cares
My world stops dead and ceases to revolve.
If history and memory are all that you might be,
Why do the dead echoes of your being lay me low?
Why can't I inter you the way you buried me?
Why do I still love you, why do I still love you so?
In conclusion, you have fed me to the jaws
Of purgatory for those who grieve alone,
And live, I must, this sentence with no pause
'Till history and memory turn to stone.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2005
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