just a poem

Skin of my consciousness,
Sloughing scales perverted by the ultraviolet beams of a maligned love or of a deferred dream,
Repairing it self by relapsing, overdosing on memories entombed to forget the present.

Skin of my consciousness,
Sloughing scales of anguish,
Depositing lessons of grievous losses like pebbles, softly on the tongue of the mind,
Teaching it to sing songs that take form,
That mature to whisper sweat some things of lives that mattered,
Teaching it words of anguish,
spoken to release the mind from the tight clinched fist of pain.
Press your ears to the floor of your consciousness, listen carefully.
Can you hear the drumming footsteps of yesterday?
Can you hear the chorography of thuds and clunks?
Listen, can you hear them knocking on your mind’s door?
Listen, can you hear them noising their way away from forgetfulness,
Listen to the voices that float to you from the links to your past,
Can you hear them?