Of Many Moments

Of many moments

Too many moments

Once fresh grown stale and rotten

Never meant to last

More than just a day

And it is their anger

And their frustration

At being left behind

And neglected

And they, these demons of mine

They have no name

And only half formed faces

They form a large, anonymous audience

To the story of my life

And perhaps it is the case

That these demons

Are but previous selves

Parts of a whole

Shattered and torn

By the erosion of everyday life

Half formed and unfinished

Begun but unfinished

Begging to be completed

Lost parts of past selves

Like old shells cast off

Empty, meaningless,

Forgotten until called up in a dream

Seeking escape, frantic freedom

From the tomb of the past

Seasons

Odd Ends: Perennial Poesy along the Way

2005