Souvenirs. Every journey has them. Things collected, or picked up along the way.
All those years. PTSD post cards, stamped with old scars gained from day to day.
Bought with blood and time.
Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.
Muzzle flash! Darkness ripped in an orange gash.
In lighting the night, it darkened my mind. Death so bright it drove me blind.
I remember the sound of reality torn. I remember the sound of ghosts being born.
I can never forget. If memories have no mass why are they so heavy?
To remember the journey is to remember the pain. In doing that, what’s the gain?
Life binds memory to flesh. To live is a chance of a new day, fresh.
So, we put our keepsakes on a mental shelf.
Remember the past, and then, we discover ourselves.
Life is so stubborn. I died. But I find that more than once or twice,
Am I born again.