Memories become vibrant motes of matter
Meandering the miasma of my mind
Sometimes they might escape the latter
To maunder amidst the debris for us to find
Where ghosts of our past greet us like strangers
And our skeletons coalesce to form a relic
Yet we scamper—still—into uncharted dangers
Unsure if they are hellish or angelic
Intertwined with our wounds and our wonder
Are the stories that brought them to life
Though I dare not tear them asunder
Lest the action lead ever on to strife
Perhaps we will settle now, embrace the contented quiet
And wait for these memories to stir again and start anew their riot.
About the Creator
Obsidian Words
Fathomless is the mind full of stories.
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