Life sometimes
Has been nothing
more than raging streams
cascading over the
sharp edges of rocky dreams.
Surging down
sculptured mountain sides so steep
where dreams
splinter, reflected in troubled sleep.
Remnants of, go beyond
recognition, no longer to keep
within the
subconscious confines of one’s memory hoard,
yet, once filed,
the virtuous, the debauched become stored
forever more, upon
one’s synaptic cleft, to become scored.
It seems that much
of my stuff is habitually subjective.
Seldom has it been
that they are of the stuff that is objective.
My thoughts, my
feelings, my words are mostly selective.
They all come from
past memories that are reflective.
B. J. “A ” 2
November
27th 2018
