Mystical memories tremble this heart
imparting moments of will that once filled
me with impassioned zeal to live, to love.
I believed then, with near perfect certainty,
believed in the veracity of my hopes,
trusted in the capacity of this me
to be as good, as grand even
as my ambitions had painted me
in my own thoughts, long since faded.
But the memories are there still,
only greyed and frayed somewhat,
torn by the incessant tumult
within a soul that could never
quite be sure it even existed.
I know people who compose lists
that lyrically lead them from one bright aim
to the next, inspired by the very abundance
of their most meaningful dreams.
In the dark of the night alone
I carve my moribund dreams
into the very flesh that drips
over my dubious ill-intended soul.
Which is how I know
that I am still alive.