Without A Trace
My palms used to have a youthful moisture about
them
Papercuts would heal in hours
Grasping for renewal and knowledge
Dreams appeared so tangible
But proved to be just as tangible
As the next day preceded by the horrors of
imminent
Night
Heralds of decay
Coping strategies equal beginnings of vicious
circles like Tantalos
Would I prefer to not perceive?
Simultaneous loss of sight and ability
End in integrity
A different consciousness
Beyond retrieval
The time’s sand runs through
Wisdom? Without a trace
My palms are longing for that now-gone moisture.