The Memory of a Mad Man
by Andre Lewis
My memory comes back to me in tiny rivulets,
Only for seconds at a time,
Then they seem to vanish without a trace.
To be honest, I know not who I am,
Except for those few seconds…
A deep urge, like a dying man clinging to life.
A carnal need, it fuels my inner most desires.
The only thing soothing, the only memory constant.
Seeds of deceit were sown,
A pungent odor, like a rotting carcass being stuffed in my mouth.
The pain of the betrayal was like a rusty knife cutting into my flesh.
She held me, her fragrance that of sweet mangos on a summer’s wind.
I was lost in her being, no hiding in her love.
The anger, like a raging bull, a rabid dog, savaging in its nature.
A long winter’s night, sitting by the fireside.
Alone, except for the white walls.
We played in the summer’s sunshine,
Two spirits running across the luscious…
The white sheets here are nice,
They somehow protect me from whatever is beyond its veils.
Are these sheets?
Why is it my hands do not move?
The urge I need this.