the more
she tried
to remember
to surrender
to the mist
of her faded memory
of her faded memory
the more embattled her soul
as if some stranger
some trespasser
some trespasser
a foreign interloper
had quietly
and stealthily sneaked
had quietly
and stealthily sneaked
into the deepest
recesses of her self
recesses of her self
and plucked and plundered
till
there
was
no more
remaining
till
there
was
no more
remaining
8 comments:
oh, that's great! so eloquently written and mystical
Oh my! It is what happens when that memory dredges up all kinds of gunk.
hi kay! wonderful of you to come by and leave such kind words - thank you very much!
love the way you put it, lake!!! ;)
I like this one ALOT! Very nice. Can relate somewhat. The theft of self, of what one used to be. Trying to hold on to the last withering strand.
Memory. Where would any of us be without it? Beautiful, Gypsy, as always.
hello there sharla - so wonderful to have you over - yes, the theft of self - the loss of self - holding on to the last shred....
yes, and odd how our memory works - and/or doesn't work at times - a mind of its own - thanks so much trish!
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