So I've lost my poems.
Those made in the night,
Those drawn
With the familiar hand
Of my dream escapism
Rather than my escapist dreams,
Were my personal logs;
My diaries;
Mnemosis.
And they remembered what I can't,
What I won't,
Or what I would rather not.
And I have lost them.
But that is identic:
What I can't, won't or would rather not.
And that is engulfing:
The unwanted sights, textures,
Sounds.
The embarassing flirtation with mnemosyne
That leads to today's art,
Should be a beacon.
But it is not.
I have lost my poems,
My memories.
I have lost them.
Here, on the grave,
Of a world without imagination.
Here, on the grave,
Of a world too proud for its britches.
Here, on the grave,
Of a world that prays to die.
What grace will restore my memory?
Or is mnemosyne too
Forgotten.