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
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I cannot speak for my poetry, my poetry must speak for itself.