A million thoughts and I’m to narrow a few and mold
them into lines of writings otherwise known as poetry.
The images returned a few nights ago. I am aware that
I know none of them. Quick flashes as I close my eyes
and shoo them away by opening them. The only method
to learn if they are gone is by seeing the darkness of my
lids. I tell them I’ll not write of them. I am not theirs to
linger with; they can keep their anguish and even that
much description is too much to tell. Just wait. All of you.