Memory

Memory is such a strange land

with all of its different colors,

textures, and languages.

There’s a swamp over here,

Surrounded by quicksand, threatening

to suck me down into thick,

gloppy, muddy episodes of lips

and limbs tangling my heart into chaos.

It’s adjacent to the abyss

where laughter, love, and music

die, consumed by the cold stone walls,

vanishing out of reach, disappearing

completely.

Around the corner,

if you ever get out of that dark hole,

there’s a bright, sunny meadow

full of summer and happiness.

Spring and autumn have their own vast nations,

you can only reach them through summer and winter,

burning and freezing to death along the way.

There’s a beach or two,

rivers and waterfalls, lakes and mountains,

highways and dirt roads,

paths through the forest,

even a few glittering cities,

complete with restaurants, bars, and shops.

There’s everything except a map

or way out.