It’s like the thousands of me’s die when I wake.
All the befores, buried underfloors…
Fuzzy and clingy, like lint…
And as precious as early century
Greek pottery.
Fractures and bruises the very thought.
The constant reckoning.
The tragic loss.
Of thousands of me’s. Every day.
Just anew.
No recollection of you.
No nothing anymore.
All that was and is to be,
Buried underfloors.
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Author:
Rocky Lagou (
Offline) - Published: July 17th, 2026 22:04
- Comment from author about the poem: Deep-seated thoughts, feelings, versions of ourselves…constantly informing our version of today.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 1
Offline)
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