It was such a long time ago when she gave me a gift; I didn’t know what it meant, perhaps I still don’t. Time is a distant memory and it was a very long time ago, but so is now and we have so little of it. Looking back I see I can fold time and see her, but not see her.
This memory thing we have, this prophetic voice inside us tells us things we remember and we use these things to prophesize our lives. All because of time and our running out of it. We believe in something ghostly. We trust in something distant from our understanding and so we live not for ourselves but for our memories of time yet within us knowledge exists and so we listen to the teachers, but are they right or wrong?
A little side note here.
I am currently working on my new collection of poetry, similar in size to Broken Roses and kind of carrying on from that book but not so dark and deathly. This was the last poem I was going to include and thought it would work as a prose poem but seeing it like this I don’t think it does as it reads more as an essay type thing so here it is for you all to peruse.
Thank you again to those who have bought my books, you’re all very my appreciated.