Ghosts and Memories

Long days past,
a golden hue
settles fast
upon the pictures
of youth.

Remembered glimpses,
oft dismembered
and reassembled
with stitches.

A Mary Shelley view
of those disparate
bits and pieces
that I’ve forced
together, in some
semblance of meaning,
to grant me peace
from the monster
of truth.

In my mind,
(perhaps I’m dead, too)
I caress your cheek,
soon to learn,
the softest skin
belongs to those
ghosts and memories,
sewn within
the gut-stitched

of you.

©️ Obol, 2018.

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