a shadow of a memory
To What End
Chop me up and share out the pieces
My flesh is the giver of life;
it was selfish of me to cling to it for all these years.
Of what remains
Burn it. Bury it. Chuck it in the bin.
Leave it to waste and
only so long as time
In a form
And all the rest means more
To whom it may concern
To whom it may provide
a shadow of a memory,
a ripple of what once was,
a comfort in the remembrance of fondness.
The next is not to be dealt with
Or dished out or examined.
It is to be
pure and unfiltered in its falsehood,
naturally poisoned and distorted,
in that way –
Hovering in your mind, interrupting your stories,
somehow more prominent now
Skirting at the edges of your vision,
Buzzing at the window,
not quite me
more than I am
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