Soliloquy

Nocturne, Op.55, No.1

Forgetting, is such a curious notion
Can't entirely grasp how it works;

They say time heals; and it does
But it cannot paint over scars
It just mars the memory; to be less painful
I guess we don't truly bury the pain under piles of neglect
Merely, the mechanism that translates recollections to ache
Dulls with time
You know how a fresh cut wouldn't hurt for the first few minutes
Then it burns for days after reality hits your brain
Until the flesh is healed

But the seam remains
Oh it remains

It's still there; always will be
It could fade a bit if you scrub with little joys and laughter
And you could let drapes of cloth and linen fall upon it
When you take a stroll under the sun
But it is still there. You'd need a new suit of skin if ya can't bear with the marks of time
The same way you'd need a new heart, young and spotless
To efface the eschars within

Sadly, humans don't come with spare parts
Perhaps it's what makes us humans, all too human

Though gleams of faces obscure,
Of people alive and breathing no more
Would still flicker in the canopy of your vigil
Venus of remembrance would shine ablaze beyond the haze of your daily struggles
Every once in a while
And the film of your grief would play on repeat in sleepless nights
As you lay amused at how it used to agonize your marrows;
To bob and sway your limbs to the foreign rhythm of oblivion
And the throbs of anguish climbing up and down your spine
As the needles of refusal are pulled from your strait nerves
Strangely, so it seems
When enough years had gone by so one could look back on them
You wouldn't holler as loud when the screen goes blank at the end
The beat of silence played on their memorial has been engraved on the inside of your eardrums
It no longer provokes the collapse of your calm

The memory of loss would no longer conquer

But instead, relapse and shrink, glancing from a door left ajar
Occasionally
A tear drop or two might trickle down your cheek
A spontaneous reaction, abridged and meek
Like a demulcent drizzle in spring
Followed by a faint smile, self-condoling
Painful it is not; reminiscence,
When you look at your closed wounds as battle scars
Mementos from the beloved beneath the eart
And remember that to forget is not to erase
It is but to make peace with the existence of sorrow
Making it some room among the residents of your heart.