Poetry - After the Funeral

There are things in my pocket; I cannot forget.

       Golden rings are clamoring over the beats of my heart.

A broken memory no one knows but me,

       Can I even remember us as three?

Do I envision a happy family I never had

        Or will the fabrication kill me as I lie in bed?

The walls are crashing in on me

        Yet there is no love glue left wearisome I will be.

I fall on pictures as though the dead will catch me.

         Somehow bringing me back to life breathing.  

The blood advances over the shards of glass and memory

           It takes the life out of me.

Today I decided to share a piece I have been working on.