Tangles

My alter-ego keeps memorabilia under the bed,

Lost dreams and

Imaginary future selves who died and flew away to heaven long ago,

Their pristine bodies got boxed up and so they more slowly give in to inevitable decay

Sweet sleeping souls between floor and bed frame

Their disturbed dreams might be my every day reality

Friendships, lovers, great expectations, paths not so straight or narrow

These moments not written down in the eternal book

Wherein only exists a record clear of falsification and/or elaboration

Every deed, every error, every victory, each scorching defeat burned into pages, carved into stone

And yet the past no more exists in the now than the broken what-if’s and should-have’s

Angels and devils fall into hysterics over our planning, our scheming, our forgetfulness

We can’t get ahead when all the world’s a play well written, unrehearsed

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