Memories Hold the Matches
Memories Hold the Matches:
Traversing the corridors
of the mind,
with one misstep
I trip over a memory—
not the pleasant kind.
I fall fast
into the not-so-distant past.
It’s hard to catch my breath
or navigate the winding halls
of my mind.
I open every door
and find the feelings
I thought I’d left behind.
Love hurts—
but can you hold the pain?
Can you keep the fire lit
after the torrential rain?
And if it should smolder
and collapse into ash,
does the rain wash it away—
or tattoo the past
onto the soul,
where it keeps reaching,
where silent whispers
become screeching?
Behind the last door,
a room is on fire,
and the corridor
is filling with smoke.
With every breath I take—
on the past, I choke.
Searching for the source,
I wonder:
is the arsonist at rest?
As I investigate the fire,
which room is still safe
to invest in?
I’m done wandering
these halls.
The source has now
been found.
The arsonist is caught—
not a person, but a story
repeating without sound.
I can let the damaged
structure fall as it may.
I’ve been rebuilding
its corridors
since the very first day
I smelled the smoke
and began to choke—
the same day
I discovered the joke:
a story told once
echoed through
the halls,
growing louder yet
more distant—like a
memory every time
it’s recalled—
until it was given
enough room to roam
and mistook my mind
for its home.
Much like last night’s dream—
the one that left behind
the smoke,
the corridors,
and this poem.
— Noeticnonsense