It burns like whisky.
Like the valleys caught in autumn.
Like a bonfire in the dead of night.
It burns like poison coursing through your veins.
Past memories of all the twists and turns,
of the unexpected and the unresolved.
A cataclysm of burns and cacophonies.
The mind is decrepit and grotesque.
It fragments me
into
pieces.
A stitch of the life I had,
of the person I was.
Visceral and succulent.
Those memories are an unruly storm
of cold and aware.
Broken and fused.
A symphony of emotions that
crashes
like
waves.
If I go there,
I'm pulled into the darkness.
Caught in storm which paves
a pathway to the past,
making me wish it would be the last.
