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