Looking for my images

Looking for My Images

by Rhonda Davis

                                   

Books have places, so many filled spaces

can I steal your space,

a bit of your time, your place?

Can I come inside your room, 

so I can escape my doom,

and the constant blinding night that won't reveal the light. 

How do you think of a place

inside of an empty space 

filled with stolen innocence.

The leaves and the turning of the seasons, 

the heavy as stone unforgiving reasons

that mean nothing to a nothingnesses loneliness.

Images that flicker like the television screen

but on the blink filled with white snow.

I can’t see my images through the pasts window.

I can smell them, 
hear them, taste

the blood within them. 

I have nightmares so twisted 

that show that they existed, but when I try to see them

they blur and become too misted.

How do you see the places, the faces,

the brick and stone that graces 
your memory, but refuses your embraces.