There’s no memory for all seasons.

A train of thought derailed,
a thought hangs from
the tree of knowledge dead,
whispers howl down corridors lost,
another thought drowns
in the waves of emotion,
while in the mind of space
no one hears a thought scream
as a thought on a saddle
rides the frontier through memories
enduring the frost
from a dream world,
while love is on the run.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

as long as love is on the run, metaphors will scatter and we will hear their screams.
nicely done, andrew.
j.