trophy

Dreams to memories awake: a test of time without arms. Our hair gray in our hands, chin to chest and voice athirst. Dying alive in conquest and fear. Where is Our truth? Gold trophies of clay, you hand me amidst the sea of a dead tongue. Youthful cheers see an accomplished breath. But I expel dust to the loved. For my love is dead in fear and shame of the thorns of curse. And I run in sleep and habit and book and badge and dry my tears in rain. Yet the young love. And hate. 

Memory, a curse, to those who seek to live. A curse of the this-and-that of never. And I live backwards, adance a dirge of my neverland. The faces march by and I hear the laughs that kill me. The merriment outside of me, surrounding me, drowning me. And I call out in my utter dumbness.

And a voice replies. Memories shatter in falsehood. And if the memories lie perhaps so, the future.


Wild Strawberries by Ingmar Bergman (rating +3 on the -5/+5 scale)  

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