Sunday, June 24, 2012
Scraps of memory
Flash by in a broken montage,
A testament to the flawed design of my life…
A red dress meant to accentuate
The ample curves
Of jasmine-scented teenage flesh…
Sneaking out the window
Upon hearing a whistle
From a quintessential bad boy
Whose demons I would never understand…
Sunset bonfires and beer
Leading to sunrise regrets…
Nights of anguish
Trapped in a demon‘s domain,
Praying for a glimmer of salvation…
I will no longer be trapped by my history.
The past may be etched in immutable granite
But my future has yet to be written.
Although I feared that knowledge
Had slipped beyond my grasp,
The power to transform my world
Has always rested in my hands.
~~~~~~ This poem was inspired by a photo prompt from Poetic Bloomings and used this week’s words from The Sunday Whirl.