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 27^th 2018