Memory

There is little to be remembered,
Everything else is a reconstruction
Of the violence and of separation.

Still trapped in the same confinement,
Only place where it feels confortable,
How incredibly pathetic and terrible.

There has been no touch, no connection,
Of this lonely being with another,
If only there was a person to consider.

That something it misses and fears,
The boldness and confidence – its hubris,
It does not sit easy with a silent bliss.

There was a time when it dared to express,
Put down and laughed at – pretty much failed,
The resolve to express – it quailed.

What misery it must feel, it knows not yet,
Is anything really new after every December,
It has so little to forget, or even to remember.