Thursday
April 05, 2012
The days move to fast for my twentieth century mind. I find it hard to even desire to keep up. This was a piece written in 2008. Found it today and did a little rewriting.
I feel a little prickle tickling at my
mind.
It’s just a teeny piece of shrapnel
left
over from my war with life.
It's not a thought, a dream or numskull
scheme,
just an itch that can't be scratched
without peeling back the skin...
A rash, perhaps, or something more
profound,
a malignant joke, a punch line I forgot?
I hate this mystery that hides inside my
head.
You'd think by now I'd know myself,
each nook and cranny where my memories
have fled.
But there are places in my soul where even
I dare not go;
that region where my sanity, my reason fears
to tread.
What gruesome part of me still lingers
there
within this chest where once a heart did
dwell?
What hell have I created without knowledge
or freewill?
Yet, I do not panic at the thought that light
of day may
find me tickled off to death without a
clue or reason why. —rrw 12-21-08
(rewrite 4-5-12)
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