This city is a haunted place.
Everybody lives there
because nobody does.
Fragments of who
they were, or how they may
have been, pieced together
with scraps of dialogue
and hints of colour. Sometimes
even a sweet caress or a
smell that is nondescript,
yet uniquely theirs.
Vast boulevards leading
to crampt sidewalks.
Moments of blindness in between
broad strokes of clarity.
Of the will and wishing and hoping.
Of the fading light that won't go
out. Even in the dead-ends
and cul-de-sacs.
Scaling the hilltops in order
to see this city from above.
To be a citizen down below
means to vacilate between
the worlds within and without.
And phoenix feathers scattered to
the four winds, by the way.
Wanting a map you'll only find
the broken pieces -- fragments
with and without names.
To be an unwanted, un-flowering
pomegranate tree.
Welcome to Memory.