Can’t you let the film spool
unseen on the stained floor?
Its frames forever static
as my fingers resplice our hands.
Let my battalions of regret,
lay their weapons down,
we beseech you to take
this wooden horse through
the gates of your brain unchallenged,
reinstate me as an ingenue,
over-throw your thoughts.
Promises can be made again
like late summer blossoms.
Take me the back way in
to my real self,
exiled in your past.
Your mind can reform
around its evaporated love,
make it feel solid and true.
All you have to do
is cut out a few frames of film,
moments of slippery dark.
___
The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘Reflections’, has been used with the permission of American digital artist, Trashriot.
