Scrapbooks

 

Time’s tome lies upon a shelf,

it bleeds, it breathes, it moans at night,

inside are the snapshots that come alive,

they take on a voice,

how those sounds summon wails and songs.

 

Each day I feed tokens from my sanity

into a slot upon the cover

to try and keep the contents

from possessing my mind

and sucking away my frail threads of peace.

 

If only sightseeing in life

was an act of willing choice

where any images collected

came from amusement parks

or festive special feasts.

 

But the journeys into hell’s fun house

that were marked as hospitals

leave souvenirs as nightmares

that claim a fee from sleep.

 

Wish I could discard that book

only it is chained to the heart

just left to keep feeding that

remembrance vending machine

to buy a few moments of amnesia

when I can insert some photos

of the places I wish I had visited.

 

Still have a reservation at paradise

keep hoping to escape to it someday

even though it will cost me my freedom

at least it won’t have shackles,

which burn their scars on my brain.