Fragments of Time
If moments were fixed to hours
And hours fixed to timepieces we wear?
Would fragments of memories would be lost with them?
Or would they stay fixed to "time" in essence, and remain always ours to bear?
I try sometimes to forget a certain date,
Its anniversary leaves me in silent shivers.
With determination I discarded all that I'd worn that day
Trying to remove any of the memory's tangible slivers.
I removed every possible piece from my life,
Threw away the clothing, jewellery, watch and shoes.
Despite separating these physical fragments from myself
They resurface, the remembering I cannot lose.
I've attempted to choose to "overlook" it some years.
By distraction, escapism, revelry.
Despite it I'm coming to terms that the fragments
Are bound to time itself, as much as they are to me.
The thing most sombre about the time-travelling revolt
That happens within my mind.
Is it coincides with my favourite time, too.
That alone seems unjust, and unkind.
I love the depths of winter.
It feels more traditional than any time of year.
I'm giving my all to traverse through this one
Without shedding a single tear.
It's a season that's meant to signal dormancy.
If allowed, one can find beauty in a cold haze.
If only these fragments would hibernate away
So I could be left to enjoy every one of Winter's days.