Tabula Rasa. (Completed Version).

Under the watchful gaze of the philosopher,
The weight of his words,
She burnt all my letters,
My ham fisted hieroglyphs of love
On the concrete path
Outside his bedroom window.
She watched them ghosting into the fading light,
A pellucid column of acrid paper smoke
Shifting in the glint of torches,
The shimmer of the August moon.

My words curled up into a dance of ashes
Pirouetting on the fretful wind
Like black leaves floating on the water,
Slow currents sieved through ancient sunken stones.
Water is forgiving, but fire is not,
And soon all my words were drifting upward,
Like prayers whispered to the setting sun.

She could never tell me why she burnt my letters,
Something to do with the shedding of attachment,
Something to do with changing who she was,
Just like a snake sloughing off dead skin,
Shape shifting into a new persona.

She could never tell me why she had to do it,
Something to do with clearing out old debris,
Something to do with dumbing down the past.
And for a while I would not lift the phone
Just in case she learned to speak the truth.

My family has the habit of keeping letters,
We do not think a life should be forgotten,
But her philosopher taught that he knew all the answers,
And she fell hook line and sinker for his bait.

And for a while, night after restless night,
I dreamt the four wan horsemen rode the wind
Above the roofs of London.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
September 5th. - 7th. - 10th. - 11th. 2017.
October 27th. 2017.