Paramours Masks
by Mark Miller
08/20/2017
Alone, longing for belonging other than the countenance presence of the daily shape-shift vagabond
Who seems morbidly obsessed in search of his past missing remembrance. I tell him everyday it is nostalgia which you seek, but cannot seek for it is as fleeting and ethereal as the images which invade you say when at a beach and you feel the sand at your feet between your toes warn drenched with sunbeam and you hear the waves roll up and down and back and forth and then the smell which takes you far away. Maybe to that first kiss when you were 8 years old on vacation with mom and dad and it seemed as if it would never end. And then it ends again-just like that. and by the time you seem to be on track the concept disappears like a fading dream after you awake from sleep. I guess whether it came from. ,
recurring dreams and nightmares. Faces behind masks of distortion and disproportion. Personalities made of bubbles which ebb and flow the many mingle out and into proportion. It is the still haunting which lies beside the child. Features of a keen familiarity yet a stranger none-the less contorted and unsorted. He lies awake in confusion.
Alive and self aware of my condition to this haunting premonition of belongings who come by way of ghosts, then portray them selves to be my gracious hosts.
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