The fog


I ask my husband has that hedge flowered before?
That look he gives me, oh no not this again
It has become familiar,  the loss of the familiar
What I have always recognised can now be strange

Words that tumbled simply from my tongue
Smash into the barricades of my mind
Vowels, syllables and nouns tumble in my brain
Spilling out in random sequences, requiring guesses

But the fact is I did notice the flowering
Something my past stupor would have prevented
My sight and sound oriented internally
Consumed in the torture of the past replaying

I have stopped watching the internal channels
I am programming myself to look out
To live and see each moment as they come
To see the hedge outside my bedroom flower

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