trips and tumbles down
into a dry valley of forgetfulness.
Years beyond a certain date
wrap around and dissolve into a moment.
The little traumas lose color
and the times spent in bad taste
are touched up with golden dust.
The grip on entirety loosens up
and the winding ways of life
take their course, beyond the bend.
Not all is lost for me to be quixotic.
There are persistent memories
scaling up the heights of amnesia
to accost me in surprise and
remind me of a common spindle
from which we drew
the thread of our time.
It just spins now, emptily
like the void of a universe
that has moved on.
Spread around, as if in ambition.