The Nostalgia Awakens
Not a moon, a projection screen,
a bellows pumping light
back to darkened eyes,
a breathing apparatus for those
grown so tired of life
they’ve forgotten how to live.
My heart becomes a tiny fist
with a lightning bug trapped,
tickling the pink palm inside,
leaving its insect smell—
that pungent, licorice-like odor
as it squirms free and flies.
For a while I believe it,
that coincidence can propel adventure
and love can be defined,
that actions are anchors of intention
holding us, binding us together.
I want to believe it still,
but the cold luminance of artifice
waits like lingering frost on the pines,
hints of the winter to come,
memories of childhood
carried like precious fire,
one that must be lit again and again
to rekindle my mind
before the wick is burned gone
and I’ve forgotten why
my throat tastes of smoke
in this black tunnel of stone,
a darkness convincing my eyes they’re blind.
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