Sometimes imaginings felt like real memory,
sometimes, the other way round... Sometimes I felt certainty, my heart would leap and pound -
Then cynical, twisting paranoia would fall,
terror would reign once more,
and my castle, my home of hope's dreaming
just stones... Empty, standing...
Half a year seems like a fortnight or less,
near a month feels a thousand years -
what magic, over my memory,
to stand again outside of time?
One night, so perfect,
so perfectly decieved by myself -
You'll never remember what only I knew,
and I'll never remember your memories
'Should have known better',
we've both cried,
Indeed, we should, for we do...
All I know is, our faults
are near equal...
Darkly private Musings
still arouse the fire in me -
an Idiot, or an Artist,
to dream of what cannot be...?