Voices of My Past
The crux of my jigsaw
is plastered on my face.
In scribbles of mine, I find-
a younger mind in my place.
Time's lapsed without define
as I read these words of mine.
Semi-confused and struggling,
Do I revise? -oh, this is puzzling.
What say you, my friend of mystery?
Do you rearrange the past,
or grant amnesty?
Post as is, or adjust its mast?
Touch the voice of the lost,
or leave her voice with a cost?
The past's sound disassociates
from present mind, to recalibrate.
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