Fog Feathers

I am old frustrated thought.
I look into my once-eagle eyes
and find them dim before my dead mother.
I see through clouded egg whites with days
passing by like fog feathers.

I trip over old experiences and expressions,
try hard to suppress them or revisit them;
I’m a fool in my damned recollections,
not knowing what to keep and what to toss out.

But the dreams flow like white flour and deceive me
till they capture the nightmare of the past —
images wrapped up in a black blanket —
and wake me in front of my psychiatrist.

I see this nut only once every three months.
It is at times like these I know not where I walk
or venture. I trip over my piety and spill my coffee cup.
I seek sanctuary in the commonplace of my nowhere life.

It is here the days pass and the years slip like ice cubes;
solid footing is a struggle in the socks of depression.
I am old frustrated thought,
passing by like fog feathers.