"
Where do they go?
The ones waiting to be forgotten,
and those who no more grow.
Do they occupy the woods, deep within
hiding in the earth, or the bark
leaving scars as they rot there,
n'er to be seen, neither hide nor hair.
The woods, all grow with this hurt,
these giants, both ancient and new, inert.
The roots, they bind, and the earth, she grinds
keeping the known within
n'er to be heard beneath the dirt.
Where do they go?
These memories of long ago.
Do they go hide behind doors?
Those that open, to let enter and lay,
but never bound to replay.
Doors of wood,
rotten and cracked.
Laced with vines and plants overgrown.
Wild yet tamed, they grow and compete,
no stranger to their own design.
To keep things inside, forgotten and obsolete.
Doors of wood and rot.
Being forgotten themselves,
they reappear and end not.
New ones, some of wood, some stone or earth.
Some simple, yet difficult to see
but ever aware of the reasons of their birth.
Still they come, to keep and guard,
things from long ago, and those yet to be.
Where do they go?
These memories of pain and sorrow.
Some have doors, some keep a box.
Keeping things hidden, under keys and locks.
Things that hate and hurt
a quicksand shortcut through the dirt
Some hidden faraway, some lie quite close,
hiding behind the scars,
in a layer of rose.
Burnt into skin and sinew,
leaving imprints never to let go.
Guardians of the secrets and pain,
created to forget, but always remain.
A reminder, to forgo the past
and save from going insane.
Doors of wood, stone, steel and metal.
Some doors lie,
deep in the dark blue they settle.
Floating in the unknown,
there are quite a few.
Maybe not in life, they're real,
but in dark corners of the mind, solid they feel.
A fortress of metal, hard and sleek,
the cold alloy in the sea,
keeping all the memories asleep,
under lock and key,
and the pressure of the deep.
But when the mind is shaken,
and the slumbering demons awaken.
Making you feel broken and scarred,
some memories need to leave,
purged into the blue,
never to return and forever barred.
This deep unknown, blacker than black.
Sees no light and flourishes in its lack.
Things sent there, lie in forever sleep,
never to surface and return back.
These monsters of the deep,
the memories and the keep.
Away they'll be, always locked.
N'er to be seen or heard,
except in flashes and dreams so weird.
The lock and seal will always bear,
these glimpses of sorrow, grief and fear.
Hoping against hope,
these voices never I hear.
This is what I say,
of where those memories lay.
"