Snatched away by a mock role.
Despair not.
Discard innocence — a troublesome memory disassociates.
Time recursively scrolls the memory:
Trying / Failing.
When was it lost?
In the combined turbulence
of the intersecting visual produced by
the mind’s perception of reality and self through eyes.
Caught thinking, dreaming:
“What is sleep?"
"I can’t know sleep — who is she?"
"I know she sounds ugly."
"I love sleep, but she doesn’t love me for real.”
Being seen through by another,
yet receiving recognition.
Redemption is still always possible.
Humanity doesn’t have to be some chimerical tragedy.
Alchemic deals made in belligerence,
producing mercurial blood.
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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