The past unfurls and the asphalt paths
Seem like scarelet Turkish carpets
I guess the peasant I see every day on the mirror
Forgot my blood lines, my royalty
Of a clement past, I cease to remember
And the horror that I can’t seem to forget
Fate is not growing wings inside a cocoon
It is forgetting how you used to fly, even soar.
Future has its memory in the past
And the past simply are butterfingered memories
Slipping through your heart, when your mirror
Is myopic, and inverse of luck appears
To stamp every endeavor. You ponder, why does
Memory always forget smelling the fragrance
Of a beautiful red rose yet recollect
The bloody grip of the thorn-filled stalk?
Only to realize, memory is a diorama
Of downsized dreams, where a bonsai can be found
Carrying on her apices, whorls of little blooms.