She woke up in the morning
blanketed with memories
of a place long lost and gone
from all of her five senses.
But in her heart she knew it still
and revelled in its majesty
for a spell, yes, just a spell
until it disappeared again
into her subconscious.
She calls it up sometimes at will
to pretend but yet she knows
memories are punishments
that leave one, oh, so low.
So she looks out the window,
ventures out to stand upon
ground she doesn’t know,
and beats a hasty retreat
from the feel that creeps within.
And when it seems one shutters out
the place where we are at
it’s only for a moment
to gather up the manner, means,
of beating memories to pulp.
Pulp? Oh, yes, indeed, just pulp
that swirls and swishes in/around
to make of mind not worth dime
in life’s economy.
But in the currency of heart
some memories pay and pay again
when viewed as not a punishment
but as antiques worth a million!