Synapse graveyard

Part a

You watched The Fly at the movies, back

in 58, and ran through the coal black.

You were sucked out of the graveyard, shrieking

in time with your mother. You were seeking

a journey home, away from hostile stone

and the frights that the righteous cannot clone.

You laughed by streetlamps, speckles in the night.

Each one like a luminous runway light.

Part b

Between mum sharing this story with me, and now,

the information (stimulus) was converted

to molecules

- the bases of my memories.

Like muscle memories.

I want to hold that night in my hands.

Keep it safe.

Like new chemical bonds.

I don’t want the night to die in a dark graveyard.

Hopefully, my synapses have grown big enough.

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© Stephen Wren