Lost and Found
I search for myself in prose’s long embrace, in poetry’s ornate, winding lace— chasing a fleeting glimpse of me, of what I was, of what I could be. No. Either I am a memory long forgotten, or a thought never born. Shadows drift through my grasp, always black, never white— lurking in the silence between words, where reason slips into madness, where echoes fade before they form. For every stirring leaf, a breeze must be, but was it the cause, or just the reply? I could never tell. The sharp edge of focus, sliced by a dissolving thought— so often, so quick, I no longer know what came first, what was last. Waves and circles of time ripple outward, spiraling from a vanishing center. They move so long, so far, I have lost their beginning, I will never find their end. On the train of life, I traveled, stopping at stations of intoxication— lingering too long, forgetting too much, until I lost sight of the journey’s end.