Intertwined within
the thick tissue,
the hive of imagination
bumbles with ideas.
Diligent deliverers of
daydreams:
the parietal lobe
gurgles,
the brother lobe
whispers back.
Projecting the film of
past thoughts and
reoccurrence:
the aroma of
Grandma’s mixed
fruit pie,
the agony like
2-0 to Burnley,
even the sweet
sensation
known as a Blue
Raspberry Icee.

The hands of life
and death
fondle quarters of
recollection,
insert them into
the inquisitive,
pink mass,
to watch eyes
flow
with tiers
upon
tiers
of forgotten memories
that plunge deep
into the ravine
of lost thoughts.