Saturday, January 31, 2004

Spin Doctor

We hold the funeral, put up the crosses, and then
Whit and cull our memory to match
The illusion of the person we’d like to remember
It really isn’t you who died, is it?
Once you are gone, I can mold and shape what’s left behind
Until it’s mine.
And so I imagine burying my heart
Stuck with memories of love still too real
Such a mixed bag of sweetness and pain
I just can’t reconcile it all
With the version I was sold.
I thought time would be enough
But confusion doesn’t ease.

Let me find a rolling highway
With a blind intersection that’s already claimed a soul or two
Stop and dig a hole
Where angels tend and wreaths fade
In it pile the truth of who we were
The fights, the betrayals, the ecstasies, the silences
(I will likely need a deep hole for all the things
We called love)
Mound the dirt over it and erect a cross of latitudes
“RIP Love As I Knew It”
Solemnly await the oncoming formation of geese, sad cries of salute
Then flag down a passing pick-up and head somewhere new
Disowning the definitions my heart can not bear.

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