We have forgotten those large and numerous senses
used to shape our visions.
Now they are merely ghostly forgotten notes-
indentations on the underlying pages, of words scrawled
in the rush of discovery and progression of paradigms.
We have forgotten our own thoughts and words,
and now we sit trembling and amnesiac, on a park bench
wondering, how we got there;
not just retracing our sordid steps to the phyical present,
but we sit trying to remember all of those
yellow woods and all those
dark divergences, and which one-
which one was both the beginning and the end
of all those infinite possibilities.
We have forgotten the nature of ourselves
and the places we have come from-
the sheer miraculousness of our being and the awesomeness
of our thoughts.
We have forgotten the language.
We have forgotten the soul.
We have forgotten the beauty of the mind.
We have forgotten the past .
We have forgotten the future.
We have forgotten the hope.
Who has looked down that inward path to see the secrets there-
resting in an ornate and locked chest at the foot of the bed?
The heirlooms of ancient poets, the graffiti on the underpass,
the inner voice over the loudspeakers.
We have forgotten our anatomy of guts and glory, of visceral instincts.
We have forgotten the true feeling, how you feel when your mind wakes
racing and angry, screaming anxiously from your pillow.
Who remembers these dreams, or those nightmares-
where the truth seems unrecognizably distorted?
Who remembers how we got here, to these heavy decisions
compressing our chest cavities-
of whether to give our bodies to our senses, or to numb them
and choke them down in the dead of the night?
*dVerse poets pub open link night... join in the fun*