Reflections

Is it the past’s reflections that I see,
So distant yet so close to the present’s worries-
Mere reminders of what could be, 
or maybe what the mind decrees,
Remainders, perhaps, of suggestive memories.

Are these memories that haunt me,
Of fragmented whispers, of conceived half truths-
Pillars to the conscience so eternally stormy,
So eager for the lost, compromised, and clandestine truth.

Is it the truth that I seek,
So far ahead as Mons Olympus’ peak,
Yet as close, so close, that over my shoulder it speaks-
Of validation, mayhaps, long due,
Of validation, for which the mind with itself feuds.

Is it validation that I crave,
The menace that makes for an uncomfortable grave-
From those who peak out of those memories,
From those that have the truth flayed,
From those who, in these reflections, are my imagination’s slaves.