All things
I walk across a land that I,
was told a story of,
when I was hungry,
years ago,
by a woman I am supposed to call my mother,
days ago,
sitting in a house,
I cannot remember the name of,
Was I hungry?
Or was I gorged,
upon the emptiness in my stomach?
at times,
I felt the satisfaction of feeding,
on my own flesh,
the cavity only filled itself.
The land I walk across now,
is Thick with crystallised memory,
painful to the lungs,
making me sing songs i thought i had forgotten,
and perhaps had never really known,
pinpricks of the past,
wash away with the wind.
All things starve,
I starve for time.