Attentive apparitions haunt doorways
where hushed figures motion as mimes,
pointing southward and waving goodbye.
Thoughts meander down legendary rivers
retiring to obscure corners of your mind,
to small villas anticipating a tragic conclusion,
tumbling away, Rodin dies to Dante's Inferno
and The Thinker enters the Gates of Hell
as paints wither like forgotten yesteryear.
Summer evening terrace overlooking a canal
you gave her fresh tulips picked in Keukenhof,
serenity slipped through August gardens
like feint aromas of Holland's grand flowers;
she touched her nose to docile yellow petals
as eyes glanced upon you with a girlish grin.
you wept years later as life immersed grey.
Long ago your hands held the Golden Braid
with Gödel, Escher, Bach, now logic inconsistent
as days arrive like asymmetric passengers;
you were once a scholar, or so shadows say,
whispers surface, unable to recall your name.
Author notes
“Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you—and summons them to your recall with will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!”