all these years erased, memories faded
to blots of ink&dust (rewritten and smudged
in/by a whirlwind of a mind)
nothing is real (nor unreal) in an unchanged sun’s
beckoning light, that falls cold
on the fullness (red pulp &orange rind) of my ripe skin.
this air is not the air that carries
voices &smells across the plateau of another time.
years that were gone/erased —
i never left, never became
a person (more than a hollow bone &pain)
never knew of my left side from right —
as i enter the body
i left behind,
it opens —
dreams drained of any colour, swallowed portions
of rotting needs, all figure in my deadpan speech,
all slow motions to a dead end, as in a little disk of a film,
b&w, sepia, deepening into monochrome lines,
breathing, talking, ageing
but not alive.
© Anmol Arora
Image source (The Past is Present by Ellen Brook)
Linking it up with my prompt for dVerse Poetics on Portals