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: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: arqios
Offline)
Comments4
Good to see you back, Rocky - thought you were lost and gone forever.
Your argument, to me, seems to say bury the past , It is unchangeable - forward in the present.
Please let me know if I'm totally wrong.
Good write R.
The question becomes are those different dreams filled with different forms of you. Are those different archetypes all forms of one you or different you. Well written
An excellent homecoming poem. Hope all is well in your endeavours 🙏🏻🕊️
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