In the monastery

Going back through the archives, back through the tunnels of time over matter and memory,
remember me?
Is time a straight line?
Is memory curved?

Are the lines that I’ve swerved on and under observed in the order they were or are they randomly paced in the place where the archives reside?

Who designs these banks where thoughts ride like tanks, knocking down walls where each brick that falls is another memory to contend with?

Memory and time cannot move in the same line, they distort,
I wonder if time transports memory or memory reports time and if so, to whom and to where?

Matter,
well does it?
Atomically composite
A repository to repose in
I suppose that it must, but we all turn to dust and reform and in the reform we become the new norm’
the new age from an old book on a new page.

If we have all lived before, are the memories we had then behind a secret door in the archives, locked behind secrets and eyes that don’t see.
Thoughts like this bother me.

It’s a good Friday and someone died for me
gave me rabbits and easter eggs,
someone,
somewhere begs for forgiveness and
it bothers me
that it might be me, somewhere
in the archives.

© 2015, John Smallshaw.

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