Thursday, December 11, 2014

Probing the Border of Regret

This is not a real forest. This
Is mind forest, the memory
Betraying itself with itself,
Weaving oversimplified myth,

The previously fantasized
Residue of previous minds,
A thick, tarry distillation
Of moss-paved avenues, darker

Arches higher than any trees,
Canopied with unfamiliar
Varieties of needles, leaves,
And stars, haunting me all my life.

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