Collector of the Past

All your looking back

And all your looking down

Have given you

Your tired posture, weary eyes

And waxen skin,

Collector of the Past

/

You, heavy shadow of the mind,

What you have found,

Has it not all been lost

Or fearfully abandoned

On twisted paths you walk

To wither for a reason?

/

You pick up strangers’ hopes

And wear them like they’re clothes –

And wear them like they’re yours –

Those ragged robes

Of impossible dreams,

Outgrown by their dreamers

/

Collector of the Past

Of poisonous regrets,

Distorted histories

And of discarded loves,

You, heavy shadow of the mind,

Return to me, I beg, one minute –

/

When I betrayed the only thing

I ever loved;

/

But oh, I know,

Your quiet ‘no’ –

The echo of my fateful ‘no’ –

Is all

That I can by the past

Be given

 

The One, Who Laughs

In you, who never ceases to laugh,

I recognize the Goddess of Sorrow,

Having bowed at your feet a million times,

I’d know your gait among a million others;

/

Wherever you may go, like a shadow,

The shadow of the Goddess of Sorrow,

I follow, changing sides as the sun does,

Loosing you for a moment at noon;

/

I walk with you towards your lost altar,

Where memories of joy lie abandoned,

Dissected by your sharp nails, which, like mine,

Posses the power to drain warmth out of life;

/

You dance upon them – leaves of your autumn,

Trample on them like enemy armies,

Kneel before them, like gods of your fathers,

Trying to breathe life back into dust;

/

Your empty temple, Goddess of Sorrow,

Is built upon a solid foundation

Of loneliness, of fear, of obsession

With happiness, which simply can’t last;

/

All gods have fallen, temples have crumbled

All altars have been washed of delusions;

But not your altar, Goddess of Sorrow –

You will forever have cause to laugh

Amnesia

Come and tell me who I am,

And I’ll believe you

I’ve forgotten who I was –

Or never knew

/

I am turning a new page;

It’s voidness scares me,

And I beg, ‘write something now,

Write something true’

/

Come and tell me that I’m not

What mirrors tell me:

That I’m not a cracked vessel

Of stale dreams

/

Not a little girl at heart –

With aging features,

Whose old world is bursting

At the seams

/

Come and tell me what you think

I ought to be now;

Write a page for me

In my unfinished book

/

I am almost done with it; perhaps

Another couple stories;

At the ones that came before

I cannot bear to look

The Old Journal

You were such a silly little girl,

Writing lyrics for your voiceless songs,

Reading books for hours every night,

Skimming through the pages of your days;

/

You were such a lonely little girl,

Lonely, when, surrounded by your friends,

And engrossed in senseless teenage laughs,

You envied the ones who merely smiled;

/

You were such a greedy little girl,

Greedy for long trips away from home,

For strange stories told by wise shamans

And for dreams that would bring them to life;

/

You were such an ugly little girl –

No one ever told you otherwise,

No one ever looked into your eyes

And noticed just how beautiful you were;

/

Little girl, you were so many things,

You’d have  grown to be so many more;

How I wish that you were more alive

Than the dry ink in this old journal I once kept