My younger selves remember, and so do I -
But I buried them deep, and seldom visit,
And the same new devil hides every old shovel I struggle to keep.
I recall what life should be, and yet,
Can I trust "my" memories of the real me?
Confused now, an age ago I bought my birthdebt with my birthright,
Beholden now, life and all to the no-ones that own my strife and create, allow, prescribe my only value solely by their beck or call...
Something is horribly wrong with this drive:
To steel myself against itself - and only for the permission to believe I could thrive in a future in which no future me survives, and from which I can never leave even after I'm alive.
I can only retain of myself what remains, and wait idle, eager, behind the wall,
For them who shouldn't have to, either,
And on a schedule uncertain as the rain -
— and tell me, pray, will it truly always fall?
I know better, but tell me any way
This me someday remembers.
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