Brittle #Prose #Poetry


It’s the brittle parts I abhor. These are the parts that are so old that I can’t recall why we don’t talk anymore. And, I loathe them for that precise reason. The years roll by like storms on waters, oceans, rivers, high tides, racing to shore, lapping away at the sands and surf, years gone, wasted into the ancient earth. The living are dead and the dead live forever. I sometimes find reasons why before it slips on by, subsiding into the low-tide.

Stewing in this moment, I search to feel an inkling or a twitch of emotion. I stop.  It’s fruitless, but hangs heavy. No stated recall. No intended intent; just satiated denial and dissent. Fractured reasoning, no doubt. Broken connectivity lost to history that fatal reduction of a lost story. It seems clear but is muddled in every direction. 

Roiling on the waves for introductions; introductions to the memories that portend.  It fairs well when this dream of time spent didn’t end in some calamitous hell.  As it always has. But, I saw the truth and truth is light, so it is said. Give and take, is what you get, if that’s the only reason to forget. What kind of life? What kind of dreams get told? Focus for now, on what you can control. Brittle reasoning falls apart, like rock candy on hardened hearts. Control the beast, emotions depart! I bite down on the brittle parts.

©Jay Mora-Shihadeh

Photo by Norbert Kowalczyk on Unsplash

#Memories #Poet #Prosepoetry

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