Memories Hold the Matches:

Traversing the corridors

of the mind,

with one misstep

I trip over a memory—

not the pleasant kind.

I fall fast

into the not-so-distant past.

It’s hard to catch my breath

or navigate the winding halls

of my mind.

I open every door

and find the feelings

I thought I’d left behind.

Love hurts—

but can you hold the pain?

Can you keep the fire lit

after the torrential rain?

And if it should smolder

and collapse into ash,

does the rain wash it away—

or tattoo the past

onto the soul,

where it keeps reaching,

where silent whispers

become screeching?

Behind the last door,

a room is on fire,

and the corridor

is filling with smoke.

With every breath I take—

on the past, I choke.

Searching for the source,

I wonder:

is the arsonist at rest?

As I investigate the fire,

which room is still safe

to invest in?

I’m done wandering

these halls.

The source has now

been found.

The arsonist is caught—

not a person, but a story

repeating without sound.

I can let the damaged

structure fall as it may.

I’ve been rebuilding

its corridors

since the very first day

I smelled the smoke

and began to choke—

the same day

I discovered the joke:

a story told once

echoed through

the halls,

growing louder yet

more distant—like a

memory every time

it’s recalled—

until it was given

enough room to roam

and mistook my mind

for its home.

Much like last night’s dream—

the one that left behind

the smoke,

the corridors,

and this poem.

— Noeticnonsense