Stage Left
the fragments of memory assert their presence
and bring the past into the moment,
to haunt us and steal our composure.
Thus you appear in the wings, waiting
to enter left, and assume centre stage.
the audience awaits, breathless, in anticipation of
the delivered speech, and you pause,
ever for effect. But then you speak,
and truth shudders in her bower, hiding
her face in shame.
“Trust me”, you say, as might have
the wife of Macbeth, as she brushed
blood from her sleeve. And I did;
for I was foolish, and a simple man,
who trusted his instincts.
and my instincts failed me, and
such love as once you might
have had was not enough to stem
what fears took their hold, and
fuelled rejection and my despair.
but memory does not care for feelings
or composure, and asserts its presence;
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