I travel once more to a place in my mind
Where memories, dim and distant,
Are like a silent movie
Whose images are lacking continuity,
Once lived, but not forgotten,
A distorted vision of another life,
Another time and point of view,
One totally askew from me now,
From what makes sense,
From what seems right,
From what I can justify
In a confusion of masculinity
And notions of the “hero,”
A train wreck of emotions 
And dissonant thoughts,
A contradiction of oughts
And what might have beens,
An unreality of sorts,
A bitter brew,
Something stuck in the craw,
Something on which to draw
For inspiration, perhaps,
Or impetus for collapse,
For bringing an end to
Memories.
                        

I’m picking up the pieces 
With persistence,
The shards of an existence,
Evidence, clues, questions,
Silent voices from the past,
Like an ancient shattered pot 
Unearthed and reconstructed.

Was this a ceremonial vessel
Echoing of chants and songs,
Of ritual incantations?
Or was it just a simple cup,
A relic of some humble life,
A struggle to survive,
Not to figure out the answers,
Not to  ponder or wonder about meaning,
Not fantasizing possible worlds?

Only the pieces are left,
Ground in the grist mill
Of history,
Lost to time and mystery,
Forever passing,
Forever forgetting
The stuff of life.