I’m walking into a room made up images.
These are all images of myself
I assumed them from my figurative past,
Now they’re gathering dust on the shelf.
I prowl the gallery of portraits
Searching for the one I miss the most,
But they’re all cut from the same cloth,
Rings around the trunk of my soul.
Maybe they remind me
when the bark was a little smoother,
when the breeze blew a little harder,
the more sensitive times.
But I can’t help but feel it within me;
something cuts all the way through.
The stillness of the seer
to his subject of sight,
cast out along a pier
into omnipresent light.
These are where the memories were made,
in simple, silent observation.
Birdsong hemorrhages like intestines into silence
in moments better forgotten.
by Peter Page