The approach of the sun shaded the sky
In dirty, faded denim, enough light
To peel my fingers from dreams, leaving me
Addled, looking backwards and desperate
To recall lost images, stories penned
With invisible ink, sweeter feelings.
I look around—the room looks familiar,
Alien, hopeless—I stumble about
With my feet torn in distinct directions,
Avoiding contact with the denouement.
Every feeling, every fragment
Of desire and sense urge me to return
To a world where I knew myself, away
From the pathetic logic of today.
Photo Credit: © Paul Burdett | Dreamstime.com