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I forgot how to remember

How the frosty air nips

At my hips in December.

How it chaps these lips.



I forgot how to dismember

My thoughts from my head.

What is left is an ember

Of the words I once said.



And with these memories forgotten.

I buckle under the weight

Of a piece of cotton

Forcing me to the ground so rotten.

As it falls to the floor

With a reverb so loud

That it softens

My toughest shroud.

Staring at the cotton

That makes silhouettes of a cloud

That soon becomes black and thick all around

With a rain of rememberance.

And now I can see the resemblance

To a distant sentence... of mine

As I grab it in time

And smell for the putrid aroma of a rhyme

That I knew was there.

And line after line

These pictures appear like a goddess divine

While I stare.



I can now blank out

And see myself in a familiar place.

In a skyless jungle

As I find a trace

Of where my feet were set.

And now I can taste

How the leaves were wet

With the softest trace

Of a memory once erased.

This is what I get...



This is what comes to me

For neglecting the beauty

In standing five steps from Djibouti.

For rejecting its horizons

Of breathtaking bisons

That graze on a maze

Of grass... Savoring every blade so that it can last

Long after today's sunset past....



And now I stand taken aback

On 'Memory Lane'

The red on my back

From the stars that once bled in vain

Now color me insane

With each thought recaptured

Like a different pencil shade...



And Blue is for all that I rue...

For all the devotion I've put to the oceans

And watched the waves bring it back with swift motion

From all the angrier winds that blew.



And Red is for all that is dead...

For all of the lilies that wished they were roses

And struggled so hard to achieve spectral osmosis

With the envy off which they all fed.



And yellow is for the winds that bellow

And whisk me around to newer grounds

Where I can partake in the screaming sounds

Of my mental out-of-bounds.



And black is for the little emptiness I lack.

For the irony of missing something not there.

For running my fingers through what could be hair.

For feeling the burn of a thousand eyes when no one will stare.

And knowing that all my potential is back...

Back... there...

Where I couldn't reach if I dared...