Self-portrait at 12

I know its a cliché title

but I'm laying out my memories on a dish

on an evening where the moon was still visible

when the entire sky spread out before me

the pure picture of our Virgin Mary

with her rosy garments

and sins cured by candled light

and I think "at least the blood in my veins is still flowing"

no matter the distance that grew in my heart

it is a certain feeling

the one I imagine when I hear the word "star"

and If our sky turns out

to be a blue glass wall

as us as the specimen

well i'd reckon that's a plot-twist

and that tree would still be beautiful

whether its roots were real or not

I am trying to prove a point here

and I wish I could be clearer

but my ideas are left unfinished

and my intentions couldn't be dearer

you see, there's a palace in my mind

I stride into when I'm weak

though the emptiness rarely leaves me

and I come out cold and meek

my youth had felt stretched out before me

with a childhood of blind stages

and a few memorable flashes

the sound of Velcro locking my feet in place

a certain smell of marmalade in the air

everytime they called it "our home"

with wrapping paper torn

some tickets to the fair

if I squeezed for more information

I still can recall playing with melting candle wax

a scent of burnt vanilla on my fingertips

as a way of getting in touch with my past

I still draw on car windows

the condensation crying tears of remembrance

and the first thing I do when I wake up

is take another ride on the carousel

and accept whatever horse I get

like when you're swimming against the tide

and you remember to breatheso you can adapt to the salt stinging your eyes