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. 

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.

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