Conjured images from a monochrome past float idly by.
Ashes from a distant wildfire.
Triggered by a sound, whether real or imagined.
Irrelevant in the face of the flood resurrected within.
Becoming was never a single moment.
Never a time or a place where being stopped, for however long.
No revelatory emergence on the other side.
Lines in the sand drawn over & over, washed away before they could be crossed.
Forgetting was never an option.
Not a place to be burned for fear of future resurrection,
Or a thing left behind
As approaching storms crowd the rear-view mirror.
In an imagined past I run naked through the streets,
Blanketed by an ashen sky,
Guided by a light on the horizon.
Not quite ill-intentioned, but false nonetheless.
A true blank slate holds no hints of that same gray,
A lightness none would crave if truly understood.
Instead, pointing desire at some unseen here & now,
Remembering becomes the only thing knowledge was ever good for.
