Umbriate Press Poetry

The days leave me

Unlived, eloping with

The calendar of dead

Seasons and hives of

Warring minutes.

I remember so many things,

All vacant, an unruly

Film of cut scenes and

Unresolved development.

Lost in silence, my

Thinking reasons loss of

Memory, maybe it’s what is

Needed so the known, as it

Dissolves into a guileless

Shadow, is all there is, Or , all there ever was.