Poem By Ayn Timmerman

The conversation always begins with
a question, sometimes asking what
happened to it, whatever changed?
But the frustration was to great
to bear, so it was crumpled up
and lit by a single ignited
match, or wrapped in chains
so it landed softly on the
bottom, was cut with
scissors and a knife, held
too close to the fire so
it melted in my hands,
leaving only an occasional
memory, meaning when I'm
old, I will be able to say
that moss grows towards
culture, and civilization has
forgotten what a tree is, or
even how to go about the
cultivation of individual things
not found in the file, out of
conventions sponsored by uniform
thinkers, so that when the
memory stirs, sadness follows,
possibly because I saw that
all signs pointed towards it,
right before my eyes, and I
kept walking,
walking down the path not made for
my shoes, but I listened
to the wrong speakers
and forgot to be true
to my soul, which died
the day I could not remember
what it all meant.

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