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Memories of a Decade


Bloated captures of paused moments. Looking back means reclining in posture of penance. Holding pictures hurt much less than mental playbacks.

Why is that?

Galaxies of vacancy circle the remnants of destruction that won’t be looted in time. We shuffle through has-beens and what could’ve been, and find the final number is rounded to the present.

How is that?

Paying back what has been accrued over the span of a tumultous period is an indulgent habit of every second of breath.

Faces that register under broken ties will stay the same forever. You tried to revive those hearts but the pump wasn’t enough to bleed out.

Carcasses that sprouted out of unsecured graves returned to claim you and obliging meant reverting back to the discarded.

It happens.

We reap what we sow, exactly in that order. You challenged fate with ambitiousness that awakened ministers in aged trees, looking down at fresh footsteps that had to be dirtied.

Searching in homes of hope for the pathway of revival to stifle the overpowering of maturity at its most lethal. To escape dried up fortresses of womanhood.

A funnel of dislocation that suffocates valves that used to supply warmth in secretive places.

Sweating and panting for a new host.

But where?

In the squalor of misdirected plight, and the fulfillment of heaven’s drugs, we roam around in seeded clothing and release words of securement.

How many dead bodies claim the earthly riches of answering daily roll calls on cue?

The haze can begin halfway into the journey of yearly allowances.

The good times never last long and sometimes never return. Yet we scrounge up the morning dew in a packet of salt for taste and head out for humanly comfort.

These days and nights are so cold. Covers won’t suffice and the deeper the more frigid.

I recall how falling asleep was the normalcy of a heartbeat until the beatings of a frayed soul was much to bear. You hear your name called over and over again and check the date and time for reassurance.


Dying is big deal with the incoming era of warnings that comes with relentless testing of mortality and its not so fragile state.

Gone are the bright walks along the shores of freedom in the shimmering light of the sun without the heavy gadgets that contain our DNA.

The sunken shadows against the wall can’t be mistaken for guardian angels when horned companions haunt bedposts before lights are out.

Let the good times roll so we can party like its 2010!

But when we double it, most of the guests have vacated the spot, and what’s left are replications swaying to tunes that you can’t hear.

Dance anyway.

Written by

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!

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