Forgetting is a funeral
inside the brain,
one that’s low attended,
flowers heartlessly arranged.
Creak of hearse-like book cart,
spines swiftly disintegrating.
Seats set in empty rows,
crippled cortical columns,
a great uncle with no name
drops a never-blossomed rose.
The sermon brief and rote,
illegible notes,
a procession of lost memory,
synapsis and stuttering,
whispers of things learned
lowered in the ground.
A funeral in my brain,
but the tombstone can’t be found,
which leads me to worry
how many ideas lie unmarked underground,
damned and doomed
in the cemetery of my creativity.
The itch to dig deeper
till each idea is exhumed.
© 2022 | K.Hartless
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
“crippled cortical columns,” That’s fantastic, and I so resonate with the concept and practice of unearthing it all, every last crumb. Amazing write, K.
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Thank you, Jeff. Passing you the shovel. We can take shifts.
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You’re welcome, K. Always. Ah, thank you, I’m aligned with you on this plan.
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Very powerful verses, K, with some great vivid descriptions sprinkled throughout. Beautifully written. 🙂
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Thank you, Tom. I loved the idea of mourning my lost ideas. Whenever I think to myself, I can write that down later, I remind myself that waiting could lead to loss.
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