I would wretch
if I could.
Pages were ripped out. I
live my life through paper, there
is a divine sadness in books missing
their internal organs, there
memories torn, and I wonder
if dementia is time acting
like a child to rip the
thoughts that didn't revolve around it
out of the minds of selfish humans who thought
the space in their minds
to be property they truly owned,
not simply renting, but this
is not true.
I wonder how it feels to retell
a story to its author.
Do the eyes light up like
it's being heard for the first time?
WHen pages with unpublished poems
are lost, those words can't be
strung together exactly as they once were.
If life is poetry, then memories are stanzas, and I
can't imagine losing so many lines
for a poem
that can never be replaced.
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