THE FOREST OF FORGETS

i don't do remembers, or regrets,

not knowing, i belong in what comes next-

without the edge and angle of pretext,

find me in the forest of forgets-

watching your perfections dance and breathe

in my fires flames then read out gypsy leaves;

imagining your whispers in the wind and trees-

before they fade, and fall, and leave.

back inside the house, picture rails

of love hang empty

from bent hooks, that promised plenty,

leaving frameless tales in musty trails-

to dusty cabinets of more

trinkets and traces-

whose duality displaces

sky and floor.

Copyright Strider Marcus Jones from his book MAVERICKS. 4th August, 2009. All Rights Reserved.