What do you,
remember as ‘me’;
when flipping through
old mental photography?
how does my face,
appear in your memory;
how has your mind,
me perpetually?
am I painted there,
in black and white;
or am I depicted,
I’ve been,
somehow imprinted,
slightly colorfully?
like stacks of,
bloated planks of wood;
masked, and leather gloves,
eroded the ranks in our blood;
don’t ask me ever again,
if how I feel is good,
or, if I’m:
listening like I should;
go climb the ladder,
straight down into Hell,
don’t stop to smell the flowers,
along the roadway;
fire comes first,
smoked-out by rain showers,
bringing life again,
to the death of yesterday.

3 thoughts on “Eroded.

  1. Wordidge, respect