Monday, July 29, 2013

memory edits time

Its an un-arranged shelf 
we call the self; it dusts 
the splinters of dreams, 
assigns a corner for 
broken words and colours 
which blossom through in 
a tired night. The music 
hangs like an elegy
to a rusted day, the 
dust of a story rubs over 
the shoes and you fall 
in the arms of a stranger. 
The past as alien as an 
absurd work of art floods 
through this foreign country 
reminding you of a face, 
and a day when collapsing
across failed words a pen 
refused to write. Memory 
edits time.

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