Sliver

A moment begins and ends

the same as it began,

passing through time

like a sliver of wood into flesh,

forgotten, but,

after long years

it is discovered by happenstance,

embedded,

and then it aches.

 

A moment...

It slips between the fingers

of desire, into

the shadows of thought--

effortless.

 

You know then

how small you are,

for to forget is to be reminded

that your flesh is ash,

your blood, brine,

and your bones

but cobwebs.

 

You are human in that moment.

You are a chaotic voice

in a sensible whisper.

Feelings become as age'd

as the wine that sits

and grows flat

upon your dark table,

and in the shadows

dreams sigh deeply--

a meloncholy sound,

like wind stirring rows of wheat.

 

Fingering the outer rim of the soup bowl,

you wish rememberance would come;

how silk once felt,

how the wind would blow sharp

as a knife on your brow

in the winter,

or what it felt like

to wipe a sheen of sweat from your arm.

 

But winter is forgotten,

summer, fall, spring,

all have been left

as a parched flowerbed

that does not die,

that does not live.

 

Life becomes a cold finger

pressing insistently on a silent vein.

 

Life becomes a memory

waiting to be remembered.

by blue_eyes_wander