like memories

speak gently of those tender traps they that walk like wayward angels in the poetry of purgatory there you sit untainted this is what you think but at your feet steps down or up up and down down and up up and down and back again which way do you think? to steer? doors closed like rooms of Bluebeard shutting out all noise but, oh the want to fresh openings like new appointments the waiting room for interview awaits, ‘tis full, heads hung speak gently of those tender traps they that stand in front of you with shiny eyes like mirrors to reflect behind they stalk like memories sharp knives at your back like memories, the better to forget Candide Diderot. ‘24