The History

And then she was

drifting back through

indeterminate time,

through the rolling

mists of a haunting

obsessive dream that

never left her:  the

images were there, the

moments, monuments remembered:

they had been pushed pulverized

out of her life only to rise

up and attack, attach her,

inflaming, incinerating her.

Whenever memories refuse to

stay behind, stand their ground,

what's left?  How frequently

often she wished for oblivion,

with no images or remembered

moments:  trading nothingness

fot the absence of rarified pain.