Nostalgic Projections

— A Poem

Time is now ungraspable; a desperate reach for such fragmented matter, like the unpredictable patterns of pooling blood, and spatter.

Rain droplets, milky and pearly white; they are the tears I cry in dreams, asleep, at night. They are my fears, for death, for everything to turn white.

Never touched, never seen; it’s the loathsome weight that makes you green with envy, for the young, not us, old and late; can riches amend me?

How many flowers have we watched grow? Will any hours ever pass slow? Fruit-bearing trees still hold beauty; hot searing keys unlock all doors, truly.

And when it comes the time to keel, and life re-runs on grainy film reel, my proof of existence on black and white, my life’s persistence through day and night.

All the love I ever gave, projecting in glorious anamorphic nostalgia; the dark times rise out from the cave, flickering past in a moment of inertia.

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