winding whirlpools...

Not much remains
In my mind
Of twenty four years.

Only disconnected bits
Held together by the
Single glue called memory.

Loose faces of men
Who fought to hide
From themselves
The fact that they knew
The answers to my questions.

They seemed to be
Conspirators in my doom
To being a recluse,
Days without purpose
And nights of loneliness.
And this inspite of
Living in a million dollar
Atrocity called home.

Malevolent voices,
Wicked and chuckling,
A melange of foul odors,
All surround me.

Whipped by the wind
And lashed by the rain
My face remains stripped
Of everything except
Glistening brown eyes.