year of the flood
it’s been nine days now
and I still remember your scent
or perhaps it will remain a vivid memory
trapped inside a mysterious time warp
one recollection leads to the next
and before I know it I find myself
further back than I can possibly go
back where the smell of burnt embers
magically turn into morning rain
how many lives can I possibly endure
with such infinite detail
from birth to death to resurrection
[and death again]
each one purged and reclassified
after forty days and forty nights
of shear madness
april two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
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