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.