A Poem

The memories were never there to begin with.

Not that he could summon them anyway.

The dark of his mind was silent.

Lying in wait, waiting for the trigger; a song, a smell, an image.

The metaphorical doors of our perception are closed.

He tried to recall entire his life up until that very moment.

He could not. He couldn't even remember where he was, or derive who he was.

Forgotten meetings and encounters, it was all behind closed doors now.

If it existed in the first place.

Sheamus O'Hell