Soul Pieces of Self -

There is an age I think,
for reasons known,
unknown, when we -
driven by immortal longings
for younger days -
reach back into our past.

Reach back with fingers of memory
and fondle childhood places,
people, friends, Lovers,
the way we in our dreams
tenderly caress the dream body
languidly resting upon our own -
private rememberings of The Love -
The Love that was
The One -
the perfect match
we let get

away

because life was happening,
because life was more important.

There is an age I think,
in our soul when Mortality's
icy claw first enfolds our Heart,
that we reach back.

Reach back into the past
seeking reunion
with who we were
in the attempt to avoid
who we are become.

Wealthy is the soul
that reaching into those
faded pockets of memory
finds many friends, finds
many places, Lovers, to fill fingers
time slips through
with growing speed.

Wealthy is he that has these. And poor -
poor is the soul who reaching pocket-wards
finds pieces of himself and nothing
else.

_{(IFriday, september 3, 2010)}