Memory

These memories are fading,

gradual death of an old life,

eight thousand days survived

and sent off, to the abyss.

They reappear as fragments,

almost always in the dead of night,

dragging along their rusting shackles

writhing spirits

drifting

on the road to nowhere.

Some fractures, I’m so glad to see

but a distinctive pain still permeates the room

its suffocating fog, prolonged struggle with the self,

the same unshakable sense of doom.

I’ve lost another thousand nights this way,

and know I’ll lose more, still,

free-falling within memories,

this abstracted Garden of Eden,

their tendrils gripping tightly even

through this special agony

until I force cracked teeth to bite through

the glassy apple of acceptance.

The past can die just when it stops being present,

but some choose to water its seeds,

some choose to surrender to the comfort of nostalgia,

until, at last, they realise

comfort isn’t what they need.