rejected memories rest
on my dressing table
hidden in a hand-me-down keds box
stationary bleached with tears
photographs torn
solitary dehydrated yellow rose
walking away as if the first time
fantastical dreams returned
one tear sluices a spellbound emotion
releasing the truth
admitting my fate
consumed and discarded
i am a forgotten valentine
Once, I heard a famous poet compare the inner workings of his brain to that of a beehive... undeniably hectic, seemingly unproductive to any non-bee observer, and yet producing a sweet result - a unique perspective. It was at this precise moment that I realized this poet would make a superb coffee conversationalist, if only I could remember his name... In the meantime, I invite you, my fellow bloggers, to trace the flight patterns of the bees in my head and yours...
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