finite reflections

never create a dream from memory

because solitude
echoes soliloquies
of home, homies
and homer memoirs

flirting with the past;
the future undressing
her act

has always been
a pool
of finite reflections:
there i see me,
naïve, prying;
the world?
a floating bubble

in a blink
of the sun’s eye,
the child in me
by the man
i’ve been taught
to become:
moulding cosmic bread
out of the chaos

now here lies the carcass
of dangling carrots.
the mirror
blinking back like,
how dreams stole y/our time,
son, look
at the price we pay
for grooving against the grain:
indelible scratches
on the vinyl &
muffled voices
of our ambitious

some blame the system
(but we here,
knowing fully well
every star and stripe
on our shoulders
was dully earned)

so we glance
at our rear view
& it’s a rare view:
a revelation
of sketching meaning
on life’s barren canvas;
how time
unhinges itself

1 Comment finite reflections

  1. Lauren

    “Life’s barren canvas”. Love that phrase. Growing up I always asked, “What if?” and “Why” and have never stopped. However, that part of me that imagined things that, to my knowledge, had never been imagined, was suppressed by my parents. Perhaps not intentionally but done out of their memories of their childhoods during the Great Depression. I am scribbling around to open the seal.


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