The Past is a Synapse

Time is fickle
When one watches
It stands still
When one is distracted
It is a thief in the shadows

The past is us together in moonlight

We were a whispered breath
Touching the finger’s tip of our minds
Touching the moment of flight
We were the connective tissues
Of collective memories
Forever haunting light and shadows
Of winding country lanes
Soft warm soil
In the first rain of late daylight

The past is there in awkwardness

There
Invisible tendrils of humid residue
Sorry sight of the chaotic
Oppressed intellect of caressed senses
Invested in the fortune of heightened belief
Taut realization of wearily guarded obstruction

The past is present when we never touch

Poplars and birch bark
Shimmering water and suppressed
Rays of light coupling with pockets of shadow
Nearing the solemn dusk of patterned rhythmic recollection
Lost pained expressions falter in the wake of shaking leaves
This is faint recourse for dusty crossroads
At the failing vision of vague circumstance
In quiet wooded daylight
Never to return
But always at the point of synapse

The past sits on a flower pedal in your sheltered eyes


Consciousness is the breath of the breeze
Like space between loosely clasped fingers
Of hunger for admission
Contact that drifts slowly on the wind
We stare at the sunset
Conscious of the fabrics that smother the impetus of action
Softly, whispers sway the boughs of bright balsams
Intermingling with pale evenings of autumn understanding
Regret is a dewdrop of cool clarity in mossy groves

The past is the fibre of decomposition imprinted on soothingly swaying simplicity