My body still remembers
the frozen waltz of time:
your rings instead were embers;
your fingers, they were nine.
My body still remembers
my penumbral sense of shame;
the solitude of mercy;
your rancid stench of pain.
My body still remembers
the protean shriek of death;
the degeneracy of escape;
how in the morning, you’d defect.
My body still remembers,
but my mind, it soon forgets;
and shields itself with torpor,
with hallucinations and regrets.
*
From "You, Who Creates" by Daniel Viragh.