There is no tabula-rasa
There is no tabula-rasa
Clean slates
Were written on before,
Wiped clean
Though they may be
The surface is never the same
Smeared in memories
Half forgot
Yesterday’s lesson
Is well-remembered
Until it is not
Even an infant will
Have an image
Ingrained,
Of light waiting
At the end of a tunnel
When the world began
Will we find it again
Before cognition fades
Dementia can steal
Us away
Wiping the slate
Damaging the surface
Tarnishing the image
We have of ourselves,
Of Albion,
Stealing meaning
Until there is only
Disordered thinking
When the table is cluttered
With splintered
Shards
Half remembered recollections
Broken connections
That wriggle apart
Before birthing a spark
Of logical thought
There is no additional
String or memory
Secure storage
Is compromised
Tabula-rasa
Is not purity
It is shapeless, formless
The trials of our lives
Should not be discounted
Or come to nought
It makes no sense
In a politics
Of experience and ecstasy
Unless a bird of paradise
Flying up your nose
Is all a life
Will ever mean