These traces of time
Are etched in the depths of my mind
A sinkhole in the cerebral meadow*
Where fixation distorts your reception

A deep depression from whence I’ve processed
And still do
From when I slid into the trance of your words
And it was myself I no longer understood

It’s where I went wrong with action,
Where I sealed my own doom
But I’ve gained much more in return
Now that I’m not thinking of you

Navigating my own mind and actions is
A blessing and a curse;
A gift that has been far too grand
For me to worry what goes on in yours

NOTES:

*The term “cerebral meadow” is what initiated the inspiration for this poem – a term I read from Nivedita’s Sikdar’s, “Lines and Shadows.”