This is the heart that brokered the deal
With the horde of those who could no longer feel
What, from the heart, did the mouth conceal?
Ask the acrid acid of memory.
This is the ear which listened not
To the ones who shouldn’t have been forgot
Take the ear and let it rot
In the acrid acid of memory.
This is the chest which bound the heart
Which screamed that it would not take part
In the actions which give the end its start,
And made acrid acid of memory.
These are the hands whose cunning work
Did more harm than bomb or dirk
Enacting the will of the thoughts which lurk
In the acrid acid of memory.
This is the tongue which spoke the thought
Which uncountable horrors wrought
By dopamine was the conscience bought
(Now it’s acrid acid of memory.)
And this is the mind, oh, this is the mind
Which every skill did combine and grind
What remains of it? All we can find
Is the acrid acid of memory.
But this is the trick that memory plays:
Memory can tell lies for days
And it denies, in a thousand ways,
The acrid acid of memory.
And so the ‘self’ is unaware
That (strictly speaking) it’s no longer there;
Its brain chemicals can no longer tell it to care:
They’re all acrid acid of memory.
And if thine ego is over-blissed
You just might be a narcissist
And you’ll never know half the things you’ve missed –
Gone,
in the acrid acid of memory.
My name is Jeff Mach (“Dark Lord” is optional) and I build communities, put on events, and make stories come into being. I also tweet a lot over @darklordjournal.
I write books. You should read them!
I put on a convention for Villains every February.
I created a Figmental Circus. It’s happening this June. You should go!
