Memories beckon
. . .
irresistible paths
lined with vibrant flowers
leading
deeper
deeper
deeper
into would-have’s
groves,
light shut out
by sudden canopy
and irreversible parting, both
–the sacred, tainted
the banal, sacred–
should-have brambles
thick with thorns
(birds, too)
that could have been carefully clipped
(an imperative missed)
send me careening off
gunshot cliff
every time
killing me
over and over
splintering heart pieces
already shattered
unable to remember us
–the life shared—
even just the
> littlest bit <
without
falling into the abyss expanding within
–that forested grey real estate
–those memories of you
–these Now Woulds
stippled with
should-have swamps
sudden drops
and could-have coins
pitched
–to wishing
(washing)
hell–
no fountain of youth
–nor hope springs
–nor holy water
to revive
dying blooms
(deprived of light)
just
morass,
thicket
and bluff
–at
divergent path’s end
(in Yellowed Woulds)
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