She of the Memory

She lurks in my memory, invading the privacy of my mind, in another kind of reality, because, that is where she dwells, in her psychic place, and I rarely accept her, until that moment that I recognise and accept her, and she is the imput of dream, and keeps me from sleep, and then the day begins, and I am lost to the dream, in another world of myself, in another part of personal existence, and then I deal with my relationship with a new day, and I work at awaking from sleep, and from my memory, and there is anger in the pangs of feeling, and they surround me, to the point where I feel that I need to escape, and then in the day, the day in which I should be free, I still feel enchained, and I am in your prison, and you are guarding the cell, and you march back and forth and you are silent and you repeat the things that you once said, and I, like a fool, listen again, and I know, that you are a distant voice, and I can only be the memory connected to that distance voice, and then I walk through doors to the day, to the present day, and I am free.