Sequence of stills
Running like film in the chasm of the mind,
No order to it, weddings, funerals, holidays all mixed in
Haphazard flicks of photo albums in your head
Insomniac’s counting down of the hours,
Only in snapshots,
Hastily taken, crucial moments secured on glossy card
Lest they decide to run off into the distance, leaving your memory bereft.
And you would call it theft.
I’d call it life.
sometimes you need let go of the past,
sometimes you ought to just live.