Amnesia

Would you judge me harshly

if I told you plain

of the splendor of a summer's night

that turned my head,

bent my mind,

made me something other:

culpable

expendable

maybe unforgivable

and unable

to speak free.

I would not take that chance 
and risk your censure.

So now I reap the harvest

that I've sown,

and though your gaze does tempt me,

I will stay here on my riverbank

gathering roses while I may.

Oh, let the breeze caress my skin

and whisper stories in my ear!

I'll make of memory

a secular sacrifice

(burned and scattered on the winds)

or maybe stuffed into a chest

of ancient recollection.

Locked up safe 
from you

(and me)

until my dreams' death rattle warns

that amnesia now holds sway.

 This was written for The Sunday Whirl.

Struggle

You’d think it would be easy

to give you up,

let you go,

consign you to the dustbin

of my memory.

Not so fast.

There’s no amour

in this love game:

vanity fair

stare-down

shakedown

take-down

of all that makes

good sense.

I would rather

taunt the lion,

prod the cobra,

clasp a viper to my breast

and take what comes.

Do anything but lose.

But though I make of this

a war,

jihad,

an epic fight,

it really is quite simple:

turn around and walk away.

So easy that it’s hard.

No matter that I play to win

in our little hate game,

by craving victory
(your love)

I lose.

This was written for Sunday Scribblings 2.

New Flash Fiction

New ST fiction available. This one was for Sunday Scribblings 2: Except by Candles