Memory
Blood-warm rain drips from the peculiarly thick and vile cloud that follows me as I traipse around the twisting and topsy-turvy morass that fashions the hallways of my memory.
Is love just another word for lost?
The music that emanates from the walls to assail my ears is sobering and joyless, the beat is all wrong; much too bright and airy while, simultaneously, seeming ponderous and dirge-like.
Metal at its worst.
As I brush away the obscuring detritus from around each, the memories that stir should bring forth sunlight and passion’s heat, but, instead, conjure forth forbidding feelings of frozen desolation and dark despair
.
I yearn for a warmth that is promised, but not delivered.
Approaching yet another of the infinite crossings in the boundless maze of my mind, I pause – left, right, or straight, or should I simply turn around and retrace my steps to an earlier choice?
Would it make a difference?
Uncertainty becomes a millstone hung around my neck and the weight forces my steps to slow to a crawl as I watch the motes of dust race by me to make each new memory a hazy dream.
Does it really matter…
at all?
Copyright © Frank Kuzel | Year Posted 2012
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