Sinking. Murmurs. Sounds.

I can’t tell
whether it’s up,
or I’m down.

Whether it fell,
or I drowned…
sinking, murmurs,
sounds.

Trifold-memory,

the morass from which
I drink,
has become
indistinct
through its fogs and hazes.

The colors and glazes,
armatures, paid wages
for constructed stages,
upon which

my memories,

(those old fits and rages)

are contained in
three stained-glass cages.

Unless I look
from straight-on,
I can never understand
what they’re saying.

But, for each new panel,
piece, or glazing,
I am certainly
still paying.


©️ CGT, 2018.

Talk to me.