A Pome a Day for a Year

This jagged mountain lays beneath,
but the rock is not tangible,
the snow is but cloth
weaved from memories piled upon
events, fading into nothing
but reflections of the current.

I am standing in a moment,
I am perched and proud
and the fall is dawning,
my senses shout as deja vu
hits and hits and knocks;
my present cries out, vanishing.

This time, this event, this etched
notch in life cuts deep,
and all I can do is run my fingers
across the sharpened edge
of a point, struggling to form
a semblance of reality inside,
my pictures burnt by the sun.