Untitled Poem by Lisa Tomkinson

I’ve always called them memories,
There are not so many of them,
And not so many more remain,
Just images in a moving frame,

There are more than there used to be,
There is not a timeline to them,
But cushioned somehow, is the pain,
Marked how it is anyway,

The muffled recollection is,
However un-required,
And starkly lit the cold light of day,
I’ll numb for comfort now and again.

My best and most reliable friend,
A tonic, an intoxicating end,
Peace for a while at least,
Causality of those deceased.