Memories

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.