vestiges remain

Some left
in yesterday’s train
others happily cling;
the rest, sorrowfully sigh
dangling in a non committal
state ~

in terrible concentration
I pull back memory’s curtain
frantically clawing, pushing away
fogs of hallucinations
in a vain attempt to grab
vestigial realities ~

a precarious perch is this
desperate clutch to sanity
what seems fine, is a moot point
my realities are mine solely,
others may disagree, I continue to hold
tatters of me~

petals pressed upon dry leaves
are life’s autobiographies,
their fragrances, in recollection
happy memories; an integral
“me” now gone missing in minds’
mists …

crazed, I seek myself
they think I’ve lost it,
little do they know I am there,
a curled fetus warding off inimical
forces, vainly stitching tattered
vestiges in fevered frenzy

am I a disoriented book on a dusty shelf?
trying to return home
know not… life’s crazy compass
gives mixed signals, clueless
I hug close
vestiges of me

I ask not for pity
nor understanding
or acknowledgements
My foibles aid me in retaining me for me
Your memory is a pressed flower kissing my life’s book
I exist in vestiges of me

(If ever ALZ claims me-you can find me in your heart if mine ever touched it or in my scattered vestiges – strewn across the internet in poems and verses)
Teaching is leaving a vestige of oneself in development of another. And surely the
student is a bank where you can deposit your most precious treasures. ~ Eugene P. Bertin


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