A Crime Against Sanity
There are these stories we tell ourselves and others.
The ones we cannot remember now. Even if written down,
they’d never be published. If scribbled on scratch paper,
at some point then used to light the pilot light or wood
in the fireplace firebox. So full of lies they were.
Embellished over time. Much like an over-salted stew.
That is why your father keeps repeating himself.
Fragmentation of the human mind is a crime against sanity.
His repetition torturous. He’s chasing bubbles too numerous
to count, especially the indecisiveness that frustrates him
when trying to choose which one to grasp. What stories
am I referring to? Honestly, even I don't remember.
© emmett wheatfall