Young Writers Society

30. "Memories"





And I know it sounds like a prophecy,
But the scroll is tarnished, the ink has bled,
Makes it difficult to see,
Confuses everything you've read,
And the path away from this
Is a slippery one to tread--
The two wolves inside this one,
Neither living, neither dead.

I want to reach out,
Hold in place
Every memory
I've erased,
Palm to palm and
Face to face,
Wipe the tears
Without a trace,

That little boy who longed to run,
To flee from fears and feel the thrill,
Who wore high heels and hid himself,
Who found lost pianos he could heal,
Who watched the birds outside the window
But somehow, could never feel
That he had wings, that he could fly,
So he stayed grounded--so he stayed still.

The little girl who could not speak,
Who swallowed words and eyed the frogs
The one who suffered so much pain,
Who searched her heart using her dolls,
Running from terror,
Running from pipe-bombs,
And every time she trips,
Picking herself up before she falls.





I'm not sure that I can leave them,
But they aren't really here right now,
And I want to bring them back,
But I find I don't know how,
Because I killed them, mixed the waters,
Flipped the whole world upside-down,
And they melded into a form
That can't, with either, live without.