These, these dreams, these remembrances, these holes in my head.
Long spells down crooked corridors of memory
Serving the purpose of ache.
Scarring that continues to scab over
Long after the destitute reality had converted the ‘now’.
What discipline needs recruiting
To exacerbate these intimate, useless musings…
That pander to longing and worship?
Worship of a time long lost,
Whose relevance died out with its own reverence.
This wicked wind with its teeth
Biting back daydreams long drowned.
This wincing self needs guidance
To be led to thicker skins and deserved redemption.
Leave all the foundling dreams that echo
Of all we knew in our younger skins.