Fleeting memories of something standing behind
me on a path. It catches up,
steps a crackling of gravel that grate,
disrupt, scatter the inner rhythm of the narrative flow.
Something omitted, textual. I keep
to the point, a crucial missing piece.
Pen in hand, letters to words.
Sentences slide past closed eyes, the ink dissembling,
thoughts assembling,
meaning transforms a tissue of dreams.
A new idea stands.
Can it survive the waking world?
Piercing
light delivers me from sleep. The ghostly paper vanishes,
the words, a memory.
The poem a floating fragment,
a vision, a fleeing image shrouded by forgetting.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 