Memories
I dream
Of flights that memories can buy
Opening
My white wings, sailing through the blue,
And resting
On burning gold clouds of desire;
But it’s a dream,
Just too thin, to make flights,
And so I drop
With my transparent wings ablaze,
Like birds
That cannot flap their wings twice,
Head down
Rolling through the cure of life,
A cure
Not made of soft memories,
And not
Of hard atrocities,
But a cure nevertheless,
A wound,
Every bit soft,
And yet so sharp,
So as I sit,
In bitter mud, crying,
Nursing wound, that would one day,
Relieve me off the pain,
A butterfly drenched in color,
Sits on my eyelashes. Quiet.
She drinks the salt
And turns sepia,
Memories,
A part to kill,
A part for cure.
