There were no shadows in the dark as the day passed into night.
It’s only in my recollections that I can tell wrong from right.
But I do know that echoes of illusions give stories of their own,
And the past of one’s life is the only thing that’s known.

The contours of life corrode slowly inside my memory banks.
Only with pain can I fill those aching unfilled blanks.
But the shadows of illusions can never be really owned
And the wrongs of the past can never be condoned.

As the blackbird passes its memories to the phantoms of the dark
And there’s no more room inside one’s body for another bloodstained mark,
So the comfort found in illusions become the only place to survive
Because the real sting of death is only found when one’s alive.

© 2019 Daniel Kemp All rights reserved