Feather

The old man had no memory,
he had lived a life so full,
he had many loves so deep,
but somewhere in his sagas
of suffering and triumph,
the worlds merged together,
and the happiness
and sorrow became one

"Once I was a story teller,
they came from my own life,
there's a story about
the boy who ran too much,
about the girl who danced like a swan,
the lovers who lived in a dream,
and once they woke up,
they didn't recognize the other,
about the couple who died
for their country,
the artist who went mad,
the child who smiled all the time,
the old man who forgot who he was..."

These stories were his,
but he didn't remember any more
than his words, maybe
his words became his stories,
coming to life as soon as
they were released, torrential rain
into a parched existence
Maybe his stories became his words,
fantastical incantations,
tightly wound up like time.

I don't know what's real anymore,
maybe it all is,
what we live and what we dream,
what we know and what we don't
the old man is me,
or I'm him,
our worlds merged
in stories and words,
which is the story,
and which the word,
I just don't know anymore....