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