Why are most of the memories
In my thousand-year repository
The sad ones the anxious and the angry ones

Bliss I remember as a fact
I was blissful several times
But torment is perceptually present

Driven upward on the scalding whirlwind
The agony of suspension
The inevitable fall

I feel my hackles rise
The tingling weakness at the back of my knees
The growing onset of nightmare

My hands a million miles away
My limbs ineffectual
Being pulled by mechanisms

But it’s only memory
The nightmare I really lived
The terror learned in my body

The cresting regret
The admission of defeat
The shame of cowardice

No angel to perform the annunciation
No bard no tale of mythic origin
No sphinx screaming into the darkness