Bones that stretched still called
in the aging and dying,
in the coldest night,
and long after the call could be answered.
Echoes of that song
that filled summer’s chorus,
and pangs of the thunderous soul
upon electric currents,
alive and biding within.
The blood that dried
in the heart.
The catacombs to
harbour the dust.
In this shape I sing,
with only the end to come.
I’m outside.
I’m smoking.
I realize something.
I thought, what did you wear yesterday?
I remembered.
The day before that?
I remembered.
The day before that?
I don’t know what shoes.
The day before that?
I don’t know.
I said, if we are all thinking,
that we are the sum of the amount
of our total past experience,
every lesson we’ve learned all neatly
packed into this present state of human.
And you can’t remember what you wore a week ago?
You can’t tell me how many magnets on your fridge,
the colours on the front of your phone screen,
or even if you were happy on October 1st.
Then if your memory proves so disloyal
so inane
What are you?
No,
what are you, really?
Man’s great fault is thinking
that the lessons he has learned
are as concrete
as the bones
that conceal them.
Brendon Patrick 