lay in wait for old age to appear waving
the hand of forgiveness by hauntingly
vivid images of unnecessary forfeited innocence;
recollections, not imagined, teasingly taunt
the house keepers of my soul like a group of
ordained witches seeking protective asylum
from those who would be soon forgotten friends;
recollections, like acupuncture needles, pierce
the membrane of the fabric that shields me from
the escaped truth that once united my trinity and
provided me with gentle streams of mindful peace;
recollections, aged in the broth of cynicism, are
now removed from my mental grill and placed
on a delicate plate to be eaten and regurgitated as
though a mother bird was feeding her young wisdom.
10Dec13
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