I Feel This Shroud

I Feel This Shroud

It happens too often and I feel this
shroud will never be lifted, a burning cloud
that has sifted every memory until they lose
all meaning.
Once I could count on the smiles across from me,
but now I look away wondering if I will be
unfurled.

I try to take it in stride and stop reading the thoughts
of nebulous origin. My worry does not serve me well.

Those old connections are frayed, and I stand displayed
as if everything inside me has been revealed without
my permission.
The mountains were steeper than I remembered
and my steps smaller upon the muddy ground.

I’d start a conversation, but I run out of words to say.
I’d sing an old song, but the copies are aged like autumn.
I’d play along just to fit in. I’d list my reasons for awe
that I once displayed like a badge on my forehead.
Tonight I just can’t see how this loneliness can
lift any time soon.

But I also am weary of writing these tomes of melancholy.
They are true, I know, but so are the bright eyes that
smile back when I was looking down at my feet.
My conversations end with awkward pauses hoping I
have not repeated
phrases from just a week ago. While others are
building planter boxes for a future Spring
I sit darkly writing and wishing something would bloom
again.

Do you remember when I could walk down the
hallway to the auditorium and everyone would know
my name? Now I saunter and wish I could feel the same
as those days at eye level when everyone was my friend.

I should take a nap and start this day over again.