In thinking of the days yet to never arrive
Various words reached far into the tendrils of my half-intoxicated limbic imagination
It was all an innocent beginning quite auspicious for the time of morning
Impossible to ever list the sensory overloads captured in a single photo of her
And behind it lies a patchwork quilt of denials and fabrications
Autumn came early that year, and with it the recriminations of older memory
Such a horrible lie to all I see that I fear I may not even know myself anymore
Farther on along down that way it can be seen in evidence
That summer is not to be had in this parallel way of inverse truth
There will be no banquets when we arrive,
No singing, no dance
Only the eternal burning of our buried hatred released in a spontaneous moment of
Pain
Copyright 2016 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.
Truly beautiful.
After rereading this poem several times I see more & more. Really nice…