Tuesday, December 28, 2021

After the Fever Dreams

The past has no weight anymore,
Its signature scanned by ocular blades
And it's as buoyant as
A dandelion stalk
Waving the seeds it carries
That will yield nothing of its grief.

The birds here remember something,
Their voices betray that much,
But what it is is loose and flows
To the needs of the moment,
Unlike me, where the scents the past blows in
Reform to crystals of loss within,

My regrets the better part, as it were, of my pride.
I need the hoarders squad to empty my brain
Of sacred, saved contaminants 
So that their all-important vapors
Can finally float to the sky
And these words can be a miracle.