Anamnesis

I gaze back on plodding, perpetual selves of myself,

that I deemed as moonflowers, eminently from

my cranking glare I've honed upon them,

as they ought to wither under the mere pale luster

of such a tangible gaze.

Still, they wrap their husk-bare, flaking fingers

around my arm, words as goads, prickling whets,

sinking deep beneath my buckler --

not much unlike hoar frost

creeping up palings, ready to pounce.

And now, as the book of time has scoured

through countless pages:

some parched, shrivelled to dust,

others like faded overtones of sunsets,

some as cicatrizing bruises --

I think I've finally veered my rasping ship away,

yet just as I feast upon the sunlight that spills across my cheeks,

my past selves creep back, freshly drawn,

and the overcast comes hurdling back,

and I'm crying again,

seawater for tears and brine pockets for lips.