The Art of Losing Your Mind

The blanks outnumber the faces now.
Too many of their names were erased
by nightwind after nightwind
when I no longer talked to them,
of them.
I remember you, but not really.
You’re a placeholder of
emotion
I never understood and now
stand no chance of recapturing.
How can I recapture in this art
of artful remembering what I
never truly captured first?
And so, you are lost to me,
and so is he, she and them,
this population of my mind.

The diaspora of the beautiful
and the profane,
the angelic and the insane,
washed away by the rains
pushed over me by the fears
I tried to escape
by not closing my eyes
in this battle that’s left me old.
Even if I’m shown a
photo and reminded
“This is…”
the you I see will more than likely
be blown away
by the sleepless nightwinds
and the forgotten dawns
left to me.

Day 12 of Poem-a-Day April.

One thought on “The Art of Losing Your Mind

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