living memoir

It was another one of those, take your breath away moment, kind of days.

Where after it happened, I could feel myself still sitting phased,

emblazed with grief and dazed by delirium,

wondering which emotion will come next after I try to restore my equilibrium.

I’m done.

Well wish I was completed,

so as to not jump into success already feeling like I am defeated.

I am seated at any table that I wish to be at.

In front of me is often a gold dusted mat.

Yet with just a pat on the surface, the dust stirs

and reminds me it is almost no worth

to even give the residue a chance of coming through,

and presenting itself with any credence.

But in my defense,

I am always staring at the ever building fence

that also comes with its dust from the saw.

See, I can be anywhere and be what is being built,

at the same time see how much that gleam comes with filth,

all strewn around.

Still it comes down flighty and grand,

I can see how much the remains still have affect over me.

and lands back at the very tips of my hands.

This time I am able to notice more readily

when that grief is about to take over my body,

I wrap up in the melancholy,

stake my claim,

to the place that it takes when it tries to confide in my breaking brain.

I reintroduce myself to the pain,

I notice that somehow I am able to abstain

from the overwhelming sense that sadness has gained and retained

all that is my future of healing and composure,

again, a knowing that I procure and endure

in those unabridged versions of my living memoir.

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