I am a torn photo album of memories,
Whose pictures, strewn out of order,
And chronological date
Lay about the floor in a collage.
A serial killer of images.
I lie in a heap,
Here, among the snapshots of the past,
Where I exist the best.
Isolated moments of nostalgia
Are made mythic, perfect
Out of the rewritten past..
For what exists of the future is bleak,
And existence in the present is bestial;
For proof, look toward the night sky
as God exists, only, in the past
and its evidence is reflected
In the, biblically-old,
no longer existing, light of the night stars.