I used to know every word

to all the songs

that I loved,

now

there are just too many,

they flutter like butterflies

and when I try to hold one

in my hand,

they hover

just out of reach, not wishing

to land on my palm

or feel my fingers stroke their fine wings

and restore memories, of times

spent with you.

They believe

they are sparing me from despair,

the chance to howl, to be

in pain and live in bliss,

or at least comforted remembrance

these bitter flies;

they cannot fathom

they may as well be moths circling the flame

for it is only pain

that makes the memories

want to fly.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017