Questions For The Way Things Were Poem by Saydra Basta

The space between realities widens like the fingers of a clocks hand
How truth and frivolity can be one and the other, inseperable and distant
Was time the culprit?
Or were you?
Has the world changed?
Or have you?
Which was simple and which was nuance?
Can it have been both, neither?
The palate of memory paints in golden hue, a gift and an unforgivable offense to the reality you kept. A lie and a truth, indistinguishable. Blended. And you think, maybe they weren't separate to begin with. You remember it better than it was because now is worse than you expected.

Can't remember when the colors were lost. What day was it when the world stopped being an adventure? When the promise of future became the dread of doing? Was it the morning, when you gazed between warm sheets of orange and yellow, that the sweet breath of anticipation grew stale and choked you, left you wheezing and gasping for reprieve? Was it the sweltering heat of noon that singed your nubile skin and drank up the waters meant to replenish you? Was it the night when the stars that guided you extinguished, throwing you to the cold expanse of space, so empty and alone? Or perhaps when you were sleeping that the dreams stopped coming and the rest was but a void between voids?

Those hands rip that Technicolor world into tiny untraceable shreds that float far beyond your reach. Lost to you and to eternity. Pin it down though you may try, you lose more pieces than you keep. It doesn't belong to you. It never did.