Image to ash

Page by page,

I'll go through our book,

of memories, of lies, of a happier time.

Each picture is another one I have to pry up,

examine and burn.

Gently I’ll turn our pages,

letting my fingers walk down memory lane,

A path obscured by taped corners,

stickers and phrases once defining our days.

Our images are what’s left of us

A moment frozen eternally

capturing every grain the lens could see.

A prismatic tableaux detailing a table of contents

spanning a relationship still indefinable by mere words.

My memories won’t follow suit with the actions of the physical world,

Your images in ashes around me, are still in my head

but maybe, maybe, time will blow them away

like the wind has taken away your ashes, already.

Thoughts

I think too hard, sometimes.

Leaving myself with too many words

and never enough space.

Things cram up every nook and cranny,

expanding each time they go round again.

Each time I contradict myself again,

a new thought pops up,

multiplying and dividing

like the new cells they resemble.

I think they are reused, recycled,

ultimately layered upon each time.

But maybe their new, each time we think them;

maybe both, maybe neither.

But all I know is that I know too much

For my own good sometimes.

Night time?

Night time is when I’m feeling fine,

when everything has receded

all the way back at the end of my mind.

Night time is the only time

when I’ve got that feeling,

of being fine.

When the dark comes out to play,

my thoughts are easier to lay out,

to look back on.

Things are far simpler, under a shroud of black,

bringing everything into sharp focus,

with the right amount of blurring the edges.

At night is when the ink runs hot,

and its at night

when everything feels all right.

Morning songs

There’s a certain cadence coming from morning hours,

a rush and a rhythm that

comes from the silence of slumber

and early morning city-life.

It’s dark, and not as cold as you think,

and even leaves tiptoe down the sidewalks,

unwilling to break silence, yet.

The flowers haven’t woken up,

the sun starts stirring

and most of the stars are awake,
blinking their diamond eyes wide.

As the clock gets older

the sound of music taps its feet faster,

building the bare bones for the intercity banter

you hear, walking the streets.