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
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